You stare at the roses in your closet,
Reading Allen Ginsberg as you listen to the rain that drips through the
cracks of an imaginary ceiling
A prelude to the face of nonexistence,
A meaningless trek down the path of thoughtless actions
(Or actionless thoughts)
A lack of faith,
Walking without a purpose or desire
No joy, no bitter rapture to carry through the endless haze of night,
But with no need.

 
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