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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.
She wants all these things without shame or subtlety and I’m both fearful and admiring of her appetite.
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.
