call that strange, call this life.

there was a poor jersey girl who fell to pieces. not because of anyone doing something to her. nothing could touch her. the reverse is truer in constraints. that was the problem. not being able to touch anyone. to be non-feely. not going on, but calling it so. parabolas of meaning whose maximum semantic intake is too known to care about. notice what? i will not explain by first-person allegory. i had a concierge of too little mind. she was all heart. i hesitate to write about any of it because of how heartless it makes one sound. she wanted nothing, so nothing is what i gave her.

it’s strange aging. you start to see your former ideal selves as quantifiable, categorizable, things. neologisms apologized for, and the march of memes carries on. one would say what a strange time to live, excepting the omission of calling that strange. calling this life. does everyone get so lost that they wake up one day, as nobody, suddenly in mock awe at the strewn remains of the past ten years? totally empty? oh you can work up a narrative, give it its due popular yield, as a narrative, but you remain the difference, inside.

i wonder what will come next. i hope i’m not. i hope they are. i know i’m afraid of finding the reverse again, which is to say the same old coda, the end that won’t just be itself. all one can do now is work. alone, never; together, a clone.

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