dead bee on the window sill


It took a year and a day to get here. It didn’t. I’m not sure how long it took. Or why I’m here. I haven’t quite thought about it. This is just where I’ve ended up. Flow. Taoism. For the moment. I’m here. An empty vessel. Here for a year and a day. Or many years. Isolation is solace. Solace is a comfort. I no longer confront others. I confront myself. He is the monster I unwittingly developed. Or a bigger part of me didn’t develop. An accusation. I am not responsible. That takes control, discipline. Maturity. Each day a message arrives on the black mirror, Are you writing? I smile. Peut-être.


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