Don't want a vessel of garnish and leather, don't want to be sewn against a lover. But my unconscious doesn't know.
Will the horse of destiny run toward the barn, reins aflutter?
How can I catch her? Obviously the way to go is right into the barn wall, or right into the dirt...it hurts the best and makes the most sense.
[But] Now the pressure's off to continue my stride of fanciful ease and productivity. My empire shrinks silently; burrowing, I wait for the tide to wash away detritus of an old love affair. The following wave will arrive in approximately one month. I go to New York. How splendid. How special.
My actions are post marked June 23rd. I whisper to the future, "Do me good, okay?"
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