AM worthless

The mornings, they evade, as if to remind that you do not deserve the aroma of coffee, that morning stretch in fresh sunlight, those moments of listening to the world rouse from restfulness into industry. That you deserve, instead, to wake up to regrets and the particular panic one gets from oddly lucid dreams of people who died in their sleep, or are you sweating just because the windows always opened to the east anyway. There are no breezes these days, after all, as progress is necessarily monolithic, pedantic, stoic.

It’s not as if the nights were worth it, though, tossing and turning and stewing twisted ideas in the unhygienic flashing of a light not meant for the dark, always having, in the end, to come to that, to force a false tranquility and melt the world away, alone, instead of the shared split-second glimpse of nirvana it was meant to be.


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