A Collection of Spectacles


To reach, wait… I can’t be eloquent or poetic. That was said while simultaneously scoffing at both the use of the words “eloquent” and “poetic,” because they give off an heir of writer’s superiority that this degrading self-referentiality (and after typing that sentence midway, pausing, thinking, “is it ‘sense of’ self-referentiality?” but eventually leaving it as it stands now, maybe subconsciously to plead with the outside world, to expose that my reflexivity is honest, sincere) has proceeded to pull apart. Thoughts are waste when I’m always, and always, and always, thinking about the content while judging the way in which it is constructed at the same time no that is extraneous noise keep that out of your mind, that is the perfect word to describe what I am actually feeling but as a person who writes I think no, that is a cliche term to put it in, don’t speak that word. I want to say that I am upset, and unhappy, maybe not tomorrow, but surely today, because that is what is most accurate. But that’s an overused way to put something, isn’t it? It’s lost it’s profundity. I’ve done nothing but change the phrasing on old letters and replace them with more sophisticated synonyms. And I’ll leave everything in tact, every comma, every anything, out of place.

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