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Plague of Inaction

Do we ever know what that something is? That adjective that’s utterly indescribable, that verb that can’t ever be put to work, that noun that remains…a stranger.

But yet it’s in our core, a core of rotting meat.

A core of dried flowers?

Or rotten fish.



Whatever predisposition befits,

It is emphatically dead, nonetheless.


What if, I could articulate all felt, illustrated the sounds of my organs, could make you ultimately experience me: WHAT?

Is it different to you? Are we blinded by an intrinsic complex that assumes we are doomed to comprehend eachother?

Are we DOOMED to not realise the plain on which we place our consciousness like a cactus on our windowsill, isn’t the same? Is a single unique experience possible? Do WE have a collective mind? Probably. Who will admit it?

Not us.

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