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You gotta look at it this way:
when the Blue Ridge Skyline
makes you second guess if you’re
seeing things straight, when
this astigmatic haze makes
a silhouette resemble something
you can’t define, when it’s all
so jagged that the setting
sun’s rays look like slow splinters
or a holistic medicine manipulating
your (already high) blood pressure,
your perpetual pulse–seemingly
altimetric though it will one day
flat-line (You can relate as you
meander through mad mountains.
Death is a plateau). It’s where X
marks the spot, reminiscent of an
optic chiasma or an optical illusion
and it’s no wonder your blood can’t
help but boil in three dimensions–

Liquid to gas, liquid to gas like
Atlanta’s sewers in the winter and
this too shall pass–no wait fuck–
this is it. It’s in the interstates that
separate us; a chromatography
of human potential: we grow
despondent and then we extract
the disorder and recycle it to
remain inflamed conduits of
subversion because all we will
leave behind is our shit and a
swollen carbon footprint and you
can read about it in the erosion of
mountaintops alluding to our
dissolution within our evolution.
Fuck, I mean, our impressions
are destructive and this is optimism.

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