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There was the day before that and the day before that, concatenating your sense of being absent design.

And the day before that you were sent a tube you presumed for breathing. Had you bought it? Nigh impossible remembering anything resembling intention.

You held it. Gentian tube, sort of frilled at one end and fluty at the other.

Maybe it was after all a flower, except odorless and plastic.

You put it to your face. You opened a bottle of acetone making a positive local escape.




Meaning you discovered you were sovereign.

You began to govern yourself by modes of wit.




Day of rebellion by way of suicide.

Day of rebellion by way of survival.

’Twas the modern death of history.

’Twas a heavy period.

Big chunks. Thick chunks. In your hair.

You restructured some lingonberries.

Into pie.

A slip of the tongue.

Into particulate wetness.

Day of observance.

Day of war and bombing.

Day of gazing into the collective navel and the progressive degeneration of thine eye.

What lurked behind your antique set of taboos made the day go idly by. No.