The Piecemeal Man (abmann) wrote,
The Piecemeal Man

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I wanted four tiers more than she gave. Her gi, trailing out the door
and into her vehicle, was priceless. Ragged and fresh, it smelled of winter and lunches on the porch with her grandfather.

I do not regard her well. Dulcet though her tones be - Ich musse -
I cannot respond to an over-friendly hand.

Orange casts about, tangles of blue and matted fur, in his wisdom I seek to overcome.
He shouldn't be.
Ich musse.
It is these standards that force us apart, like time and the two headed best.

One moment, fragmented upon a brown frothing waterfall, lasts until yesterday; and it seeks to repeat its own history. It will succeed even when push it into my future. The two-beast, never to reconcile its dichotomy, will control me.
Ich musse.

The dedication to forthright action. Ich musse.
I can only slay this demon, if he is one, myself. Treading grimly on the mottled horizon, dripping fragments into loose colors, and straying from inaction to inaction - I tyrannize the future with my fist.
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