I keep trying to run my hand over the shape of things, mounds of endless flesh with bones embedded in unlikely places.

And I still don't get along famously with most people. It makes me think of a crack in a supply pipe under the bathroom sink, where the seemingly infinite/invisible water in the pipe represents the full content of human consciousness and the leak represents how much actually gets through to just me. The larger the breakage, the more I love you.


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