Left in the heat or left in the cold, left in a crowd or left all alone. There's nothing right to write or what should be home. No one's waiting for me, at least I can see that the time in my head reflects the same progress as the time that I spend with no one else. So the dirty clothes pile and garbage never is thrown, it worsens, it grows. The ailments and pains, ignored or untouched, until something must go. I build up every possibility in my head knock them down promptly and leave truly solid. You said it's fine, don't apologize, we move on in time, it's worth the climb. I can see no one's waiting.
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