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The Gorgeous Discus

Toxic morning in the aftermath of a shitshower of farewell. Too late, I thought to myself. The deed is done and the morrow is now.

Come back to me, it's always easy, that's what the earblasters rang to my head on the first light. My body barely even there, as if it was forgotten and left to rot somewhere in the rubbish of the studio in Three Mills. Even if things end up a bit too heavy, we'll all float on.

My humble abode is fucked up right now and the desire to retaliate is futile. My inner senses tell me something needs to be done. Not tomorrow, but today. Perhaps it is a dire task to pursue. There is nothing here worth noting except the brine smell of gasoline and radiation. The things behind me are now things of history. Something to ponder perhaps but not necessarily relevant. All that matters to me now is the next five years remaining.

Remaining, such a fragile choice of word.

Dreams, this and that. We speak of it and forget. Dreams, an opportunity to seize everything we've always wanted. I think to myself, somewhere down the road there's that, not even the starting line nor the finish. It specifically fingers somewhere down. The dream of a panoramic view, a kaleidoscopic image of the self in decadence. Laughing hysterically at the things down below, the world in the palm of one hand. The only thing you could ever ask for. The experience of decadence. We all fall down.

But before that, we'd have to climb up higher than dreams are capable of. Just like a gorgeous discus.

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