be wary of she whose self portraits bear no likeness to her own self

reasoning with the other inner voice,

that there might be a purpose for all this stimulus:

just another week, another day

there’s a point at which i must beg me, stay,

bear with me. drudge

through the sludge of truth.

 

truth resides in stimuli, in the motherfuckers

who need my attention, there it waits

disguised itself by the illusion that i can do what i want!

a force revealed when i see it through the eyes of

other people.

 

my deepest apologies to plato, glaucon

because i gave up my position and

thrust forth the pain of inquiry ––

pseudo intellectualism, i once heard it called

 

two is prime. prime is god.

three is odd. release the doubt,

let it roam free.

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