Sitting on the couch with a glass of white held in both hands - rotating and rocking - creating a difficult to describe motion and feeling with the ensconced liquid.
Wondering why things turn out the way they do. The clock ticking out the lateness of the not quite night, not morning. Grateful for the one who unknowingly defends the unseeming. Thinking about the misconstrued lewd seduction. You see catastrophe - but it's the lasting affliction. The consciousness of that which is alike - spiraling into one.
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