Beds are made for unmaking. Midnights are for sleepy secrets. You watch Dead Poets; you could never be one; you are not a poet and you do not try; you cannot die and you do not try. In your dreams you walk in a straight line off a worn path to only gods know where: you call out a name, sometimes, in these dreams; the echoes insult you. There is much work to be done. There is much work to be undone. The universe does not give a damn but I do and you will never know.

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