All this jazz

Sometimes I can’t find my way through time. I find streets and houses, faces and paychecks, food not the time.
It ignores me. So everything is down to little acts of life and reality around it, collapsing and reinventing itself.
Passage of acts. Miserably unimportant. Try to find itself in all that doesn’t matter when you know purpose is at hand.
Fatamorgana. Purpose is at hand. Fucking joke. I am done missing things. I am complete.

 

 

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