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You Could Make A Killing

How can so much be said, so quickly, clearly spilling over the edges of normality and there still remains so much unsaid?  There are wells of intimations and Pavlovian responses huddled between the words.  The spaces are pregnant pauses.  Lochs.  Dams.  Closed doors.  Iron gates.  I see things but pretend not to.  Like always.  And still, there are galaxies of words just out of range, sensed by some unknowable subtlety.

I hold my hand close and tight, hopefully inscrutable.  But something has slid away in the night.  It’s no longer this urgent, volcanic compulsion that I can barely mask.  It’s not a whisper telling me to be bad for the sake of wildness itself.  It’s a quiet decision.  The window had passed.  I no longer feel on the verge of confessing every wrong, hopeful thought.  Those thoughts just float by in their fleecy way.  I’ve seen that future and it crashes and burns into the past.  It is hopeless need and tragic brokenness.  Fire consuming itself.  Unbearable intensity and then even more unbearable apathy.  A dirty bent sign reads “There is no healing this way.  Next rest stop 50 years.”

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