In Script, I

Careless words were now more clearly and carefully relayed, as I wrote upon the queen size bed in which you laid. In between a sickness and a haze. Waiting for something in a room for which you paid for, but of course, couldn’t stay. In thoughts transmitted, transmuted and retrained– you were hesitant as she slept, and I found some sort of balance in the lack of order surrounding everything.

“Oh”, they would say. In obsessive thought forms that replay, watching my every move to mark every mistake. “Can’t catch a motherfucking break.” I’m in between and you have now made it impossible for me to say; despite the passivity of pure hatred, I loved you anyway.

And I didnt quite remember why. In visions temporarily lost in a lifetime of sleep, I had reasonably wondered what remnants of truth remained, even still, kept concealed within me. Despite the use of telepathically charged weaponry, to which I have no doubt you felt almost entirely deceived. Demented in some ways or perhaps somewhat demeaned. Though all along this lack of order fits perfectly in place amidst the background or “behind the scenes”, beyond the veil or in between multiple screens. Written in a script you couldn’t fully understand.

“How were we then expected to read?”, let alone expand.

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