this will end up fragmented someday

and what would you ask of me – that I not betray myself?

that I not reject the eternal froth of illness and woe that bites at the back of my throat – that I not seek to rend the wiry veins of a pitiless, passionless creature back from the tips of my fingers and the whites of my eyes?

courageous, congenial summer triumph, your feet will soon become snared, for the outskirts of my vision are a mire of traps, and nothing which I behold retains the shape with which it was conceived.

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