The windows are dark, and there's a musty smell.
The clutter of all our days is something we need to wade through,
much like the pages in a book, if we could only cram them in.
A binding is a nice idea, but then where would I begin and end?
The meaning would be shoved together unable to spread out across the table, or across time, as the case may be.
How do we keep our days from just flying away?
What an idiot I seem to be!
I run and chase to not lose even one, and yet here I find myself at the drawing board trying to collect a vision of the what the future holds for me.
It's absurd!
If you would just focus some energy with me perhaps all my trying should not be in vain, and then the scribbled writings might be more than a mere stain.
We could keep some chapters secret, hidden from the crowd, you know, the ones about our feelings and the curses that we shout!
They say what is hidden in the dark must come to light, but I don't know about that.
I told too much, and so I have torn out the pages that reveal my secret . . .
Those days are gone and lost forever, for if I never tell, who will?
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