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This too is meaningless, a chasing after the wind.
I recite my old lines like new secrets.
The familiar rhythms of our stacked lives have become a kind of closeness.
An exhaustive proof that we, whatever it was that bound us all together within the first-person plural, were not surviving.
It induced a rollercoaster lurch within my solar plexus.
It was survival only in the sense that a meme survives. Generational persistence, without meaning or memory.
