life is the sieve through which
my anarchy strain resolving itself into works,
chaos is the score upon reality is written,
the timeless, swirling gyroscopic horde,
delirium of disorder,
I am just an atom in an ectoplasmic sea,
without direction or a reason to exist,
the anechoic nebula rotating in my brain
is persuading me,
contritely, to persist.
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