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poème.

Some days I wish I could put the whole world into a poem.

This is no different than wishing to be even a mediocre poet.

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It is late, here, after midnight, although these days my own days are curiously contrived. I’ll stay up for twenty hours, and sleep for four, and then shift and explore the inverse. It’s a strange unmooring, and a sweet one, and there is a certain beauty to happy wakefulness at, and a witnessing of, the darkened expanses most prefer for rest. I’ve taken to walking, late; in the absence of light, thoughts are more easily glimpsed than things.

If I did not so love to dream, I’d wish to never have to sleep. The world is too precious and strange to escape, but then, so too is what happens on the other side, whatever and whenever that may be.

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Some days I wish I could put the whole world into a poem.

This is no different, really, than wanting to die.

I don’t mean this morbidly, nor as implication. I mean only to say that the accomplishment of such would be so ultimate, and so pure, as to ensure the rest be only a happy and final sigh. Besides, the world changes too fast to capture. Besides, that poem would create only another whole, begging to be held, and happily, gratefully, I would wish the same wish again.