A Collection of Spectacles

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Beyond the silence of the suburbs, encapsulating the ease of a breath, the quietude of a whisper, you lie awake, pressing “symmetrical static uniformity” (the recipe for nothingness) to a bare chest.  On a surreal night, I am crushed by this gentle force, exhibited by a musician whose hands hover apprehensively above keys, right before he commits and places his fingers down.

The spectrum of a sunset is absorbed by porous strands. In the morning, all I see is its radiance.

I’m looking at everyone’s happiness from the other side of a window. No, I’m not shown that much generosity. I’m looking at everyone’s happiness through a crack in a wall that’s barely an inch wide. Living life like a modern-day Mary, only the world is my room.  I’ve put up every boundary myself.

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