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                           Time of confusion


If a tenth of the time I spend thinking of death

I spent thinking of life, I would be full of life.

If I thought to myself how little eternity means

and believed it,

I could live eternity every moment.

And I wouldn’t have to write like a wailing infant,

nor pretend to be weak because weakness was fun.

This damn sickness of having to need “perfection”

or prettiness because nothing matters

and everything changes

and everything dies

would no longer infect me

and I could live like someone in 18th-century Vienna

when the most unpleasant thing was horseshit on the street.

Just to not wonder why I so long for eternity and fullness

and have been birthmarked with this senseless yearning

for something outside the bounds of sense. 

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