After I died, the gods called me in for an interview. They didn't ask and
I didn't answer. I had a sense of obligation, but all that was there was
imperfect. So I climbed into the hole and started polishing the silence.
No nullity so absolute but that it have its edge. No absense so complete
but that some pocket of memory remain. And that's where I come in.
A million
miles away, perhaps, someone else labored at their little corner, wearing
it away, trying to perfect the void, just as I did. But nowhere did we
touch, nowhere.
To strip this
world off like a suit that never fit, that one's parents made one wear.
To take off one's body. To lay all one's memories to rest. To untie the
tangled emotions one by one which have bound me to this task, this impossible
task of loosening those bonds.
shmoetry
Surrealism
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