become pastiche
So few people. Uncongested but happy. How I doubt riches in pop culture: fixed but never making the worst of it. Squandering little meat in the fridge. I don’t see friends at a group event and want to laugh aloud with sorrow. They are my escape. The escape from mass plebeians. I run from it and wonder where those friends are? If they could merge into one person I would need nothing else. Reality being such a tamed creature. Often over developed as saddened detritus. So are you.
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