I have stood in line for release dates that most people would roll their eyes at. I roll my eyes at people who insist on using the correct form of the/er/ir/y’re even though I was once an insister myself. I have three parts to myself: the insister, disclaimer, and ceaser. In the mornings, when I consider the day, I wonder how I might avoid what I don’t understand while remaining simultaneously persistent about the precariousness of that which is definitely deniable. I have the words but not patience. And I really want to tell you something. Funny isn’t it, how these words could build a raft and float down this stream of consciousness if only I had the time and twine to untangle it all. At night, before I retire, I return to the same stumbling stitches of self and silly and sentimentality, and I think once more of the absoluteness of anonymity and I insist once more that I understand the understated.
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