I’m told I need to find space for my feelings, to really feel without the anesthesizing effects of language.

Sometimes, I do. On the internet.

Where I talk to my imaginary self.

Or search for my dopplegangers in digital edifice and portraiture of the life I must be living, somewhere.

When that guilty mystery runs its course,  like any unprofitable religion,
I might on rare occassion tear away my digital familiars with a faintly painful sucking sound from the comfortable concaves of my hands.

Then I’m free.

To watch the rain water from the corner seek the storm drain in the center of my basement floor. And smell the lingering tang of the day’s last cigarette turned to perfect ash in my crystal dish.


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