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This is how my mind revolts: it shatters on the tip of my tongue and then there’s a jigsaw in my mouth again. My thoughts come out fractured, interrupting each other, drawing arbitrary blanks for lost language and it’s jarring: how what’s missing will always have it’s place, the same way silence is so deafening in its longing to be heard–how each space longs to be looked upon with the same significance as the words it separates. And just as an architect can design a thousand different houses that no one ever calls home, I can rearrange this body built of fragments a thousand ways and it will still read a similar hypologia. Because home is when as much as where. Because the half-life of essence reduces with every word. Yet I write in circles until I’m motion sick; I write myself into asylums, trying to transcribe the silence that narrates this idle-longing, as it creeps down the bell-curve of my spine.

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