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Rated: E · Prose · Philosophy · #1209672
Stream of thought meandering through the patterns of the threads in my life.
         I can't let go of a certain unsettled discontinuity.

         Threads which have been pulled from dreams and laid to rest extend to comfortable days which seem to extend without an end. Without a loop.

         But all things must loop back on themselves and into the concurrent vibrations that parallel threads provide. To lack the loop is to lack an essential fragment of...time? Perhaps love; love of life.

         Is this where I find myself standing? Is this the empty map I am destined to explore?

ancient threads pull and recede
through silver gaps time has woven between us
falling snow muffles noon's chorus

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