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A bubble on the surface, of a story shining in the sun, floating with the ocean waves; Tension clinging on the surface, insides seemingly empty. Waiting to burst, seldom alone; a life, a star, a dot, on the blanket of blackness; to mark a moment unique, before the clock resets, for the millionth time. Circling endlessly or even eccentric, spiralling still, but out of control. Does it have a will? Or is it just a container, for the breath of the abyss, to find it’s way out? Butterfly is a celebrity, when it comes to probability. What about the bubble, does it have an effect too? And unaware of its groove, it goes on to tease, economists and kids alike, like the glittery part, of a relaxing bath. 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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