as we sit here slowly dying,
passing time like scenery,
lulled by the rhythm of endless motion,
watching the world go by,
as if through the wrong end of a telescope,
small and far away,
idly observing that the weather has turned ominous,
perplexed that we are so fervently unloved
...in the midst of all this, i find myself wondering
how much like dreams it has all begun to seem.

our lives have lost segmentation
— the tactile contours of this thing and that, then and now and future —
they blur at the edges,
each vague moment bleeding into the next.

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dust motes on the datastream,
haphazard as butterflies,
we exist in continuum,
inhabit particle moments, unconnected to any larger whole.
flit on and off like bits.

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