It's becoming more and more difficult for me to remember the books I've read.
I can't keep all of the titles and story lines straight, let alone catalogued in my brain.
There are fractured remnants of workplace transgressions, sexual experiences and severed body parts
floating in my gray matter like color forms looking for a sticky landing strip.
At night, as I try let go of consciousness,
the lives of these characters cloud the nothingness I long for.
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