It’s late
But no clock ticks.
It rains
outside, and nothing’s drenched.
Fan spins
But it’s quiet.
Soaked in beautiful silence.
In endless time,
In rushing stillness.
An impulsive contemplation
Sorts floating thoughts
into words, into history
at 3.43.

If only I could pick out parts of me I want to preserve, and keep them in a jar.

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