the heaving piles of
"Mine is ...;"
the slippery slope of
"Not me;"
the ringing.
Slipping down into a trench dug years ago, filled and covered by dead leaves, and whispering, "Fuck."
An empty house, lived in by untrained misery, again.
The inkwell, and the pen. The closure, the justifications, the terms, the rationalizations, the settling, the settling, the settling.
The contents settle down into many layers. The thickest, the darkest, seethes and freezes on the bottom.
Another layer settles over that one. Another, another, all the way to the top, where undecided specks float about occasionally.
And once it's settled, it's settled. You can kick it back up again, but don't expect the layers to be so clear when you do.
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