My knuckles are swollen with callouses from one thousand strikes, as I rest my palms on my thighs. I sit seiza and contemplate a blooming spring willow tree at midnight. I struggle to empty my mind with sweeping motionlessness. The robust silver moon scrapes my closed eyelids. I slowly realize that dissatisfaction is chaff, like any other fixation. I exhale a lifetime over many similar decades.
8:59 p.m. - 2016-02-15
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