I sit beside myself, knees down, heels to spine. I watch myself pitch and turn with a fever of loyalty. I hear mumbled truths masked in a strained gurgle of dissonance. I bring a white cloth-- dyed grey from the grime of tears-- to the forehead of my clone. He's submerged and swum deep in a sickening shoal. I whisper a litany of critiques to the ill-ridden, in the hopes that sulfurous dreams aren't self-reinforcing.
I pull back the fabric again with a wringing of hands. The besmirched rag is dropped into a bowl of scalding inconveniences. I close tinfoil eyes and pray to a dead deity. Singing a cadence that is uttered five syllables too long from a closed and wordless mouth.
10:25 p.m. - 2014-11-04
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