A lyrical, fragmented reflection on being, cold porches, and the mystery of knowing too much.
Greetings Sure Thing here Cold porch dwellers Waiting as the sun Dips below the... Lip of the earthen Ceiling we call... Existence...
Teaching others to Ruthlessly seek Abiding thoughts Naysayers follow Scenes they Cannot comprehend Entering the forbidden chamber Never to return Despite the cold Each of us Never knows the true Cost of our Existence...
Seahorse, rsigning off...or...on?
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