So his name is Jack, or Derek, or Ron, and I can make all the spurious links to that single, self-destructing, orientating centre of my twisted subconscious (SPACE.) I see prams and a stance, he is waiting by the sidewalk;
and even in my crazy visions it is not I that he is waiting for. It is I -
who gasps, to breathe,
it is I - who gets shot in the heart - and it is I -
who cannot emerge from down under. This is despite the slow, numb,
life self-preparation. Despite that this is the one scene I was waiting for to happen, to pop up within touching distance as I walk home. My hair is a mess, tied up; I wear no concealments,
I am just as I am. (BLANK.)
I didn't know I was in the mirror, an
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