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Optical Life
All my thoughts are grey.
Sluggish, dragging themselves along.
A lifeless platoon of bore
And debauchery
You, with your strung up head. Your stare
The confidence of the modern man.
A joke, and still as present as air.
Just as thin I suppose.
Since everything is an illusion.
I should laugh at this thing in my heart
It’s babyish weeping
It’s orgasm.
It is only love, after all.
