the midas touch

hey songbird, i wanna hear your voice, want to ask you questions. mystery multiplies and folds in on itself. my hours are days and my days are weeks. i am trapped of my own will in a machine that has countless tiny reflections. i see myself in some and some in myself. there are voices that i hear in my head and i do battle with them by the hour. the blood that spills forms words and the words build sentences. the sentences place themselves on a page in the shape of my heart. what matters is meaning, but what meaning matters?

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