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i never get a glimpse of myself til i begin to crumble, and then i see the bits & pieces, the raw clumps of clay that, put together properly, form a somewhat recognizable person. i mean, you might recognize it, you might say, "oh, gee, isn't that himself, eh? let's cross the street & greet him", but at once i would not see myself in the mirror of the shop window, there on the right... i'd see the shapes of the passersby trickling past me, but no jeffrey, no self. and i'd see you, and i'd say hello how-are-ya, lovely, yes let's do, but my hand would be a freakish maw of carbon as i shake yours, yours which feels firm but giving as ever, my lips against your cheek. it is hard to believe that the chair does not disintegrate, that the asphalt does not deflate and inhale my meager soul, that my hand cannot raise this glass, that you can see me and smile. you look at me quizzically (because you must be seeing the person behind me, because i am not really here) but the game is on. it's all dreamland, and when we depart, off to the circus or to bed, here come the dinosaurs and mice, the cliffs of dover and the deep blue sea, here come my parents and dead friends.
then there's tea.



The following comments are for "mud"
by mercer102

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