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minding the mast,
leaving it alone at last.
give me reasons to find my way and i’ll probably walk it away.

there is a swiveling thing that twists inside me.
try to pin me down,
not hard,
try to make it stick, make it stay,
not really a way.

i’m coming round to accepting
that this is me,
only after giving it away
lost at sea,
it’s another distemper shot for me

round after round,
the fight goes on,
like a marathon,
those with big lungs and a big heart doing their part to keep going as long as they can,
until it ends,
and defenses fall,
and we collapse and
call paramedics, drift and shiver in the heat,
less than complete,
but it’s how the race is won,
this race to nowhere

i’m not a cynic, but cynicism is a game we play,
a love we all betray.

i don’t think it’s the best thing I have to say is it a good way of making a good thing about me is it is not the thing that is a thing to me

an artificial intelligence wrote that and i let it,
too tired to accept how hard it is to sometimes think of something to say,
but i write it anyway.
the first day of many,
until there are none.
until there are none.

i’ve never sailed, but i mind the mast,
it swivels.

just like me.

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