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Can’t you help, 

but weave webs, with pauses and words, graceful or gross, desperate or cruel, web within a web, life made of lives? Sophistry might be fun, or reflex like cocking a gun; but a touch of truth, accidental or otherwise, known or unknown, will burn down the anchors, that hold the kingdom, of your mind, suspended with words; trivial at first, momentous later. If I were to weave too, versions of truth; emotions twilling with reason, mundane with mystic, complete in parts, never the whole; would you bother, to look through them, and jump into the fire, or will a version suffice? T


Try as you may, to keep the bubble, of your frail existence, burst it will. Cosmeticize to your heart’s content, miseries and trophies of a life lived, on terms made by your growing self, your indepen

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