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My heart is beside me, I am dying. This room has turned black and stillness grows on. My chassis slows and I die while flying. These last thoughts go to paper as they dawn,
Time appears to be infinitewhen my pencil scratches across the paperline after lineI erase the mistakesI keep goingI cannot give up, not thisMy heart and my emotion are here,
Writing is like life, probably. Maybe. The uncertainty is pretty appropriate, I think. How can you know what exactly you'll put on the next page? How can you know?