Catography # 53. “Flow my tears …”

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It’s been a week, but I have foundered on the reef last minute before midnight. I’m still on that day, motionless, floating with her eyes fixed on the terrible sky. I do not want cruel miracles, do not want to re-learn gestures and habits, repeat them until they become automatic. I will continue to walk on your paths, before the grass grow back and make your indistinguishable, our path. Continue to do so, and be wearing a clay mask and stilts, because the wings of cardboard and icarica memory dinner are fallible, and my fortress, the cardboard box of childish memory. And I do not ever wear the metal mask of the god of wrath, even if they have laughed at me for that half a second of tears shed in public when I saw her lifeless you in the cage. Rather stupidly I trown and stubbornly against the leviathan insensitive and inhumane that may be the man, and as a comedian and scared Ahab, against the dark side of man, because in my beginning is my end there, and I’ll be damned if I started like many to embark on the ship of oblivion and renunciation.

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