I had it one time, okay maybe two. But never at the right time.
Or the right wing.
Or the right stuff. Because stuff is just that:

It’s that woman who adores music you detest yet she has long blonde hair and a cleavage avatar. You adore her with social attention.
You don’t tell her you are nihilistic, unemployed and living with your Mother.
You stun the world with your wit and misspelled words because they give you character.
No degree, not even a high school one, but by God you have character. Americans appreciate such depth don’t they? Especially those behind the masks.

Simultaneously, a noble soul leaves the earth while you tap tap tap 140 characters to impress. The hole left in the souls of many can’t be dammed by the jargon juggernaut that holds no sincerity.
It’s just stuff. But you impress.

It’s mindless. It’s a catch-all. It’s the Lee Harvey Oswald of all conspiracies.

In the dark matter that holds my universe together is a clue. I sent you a map of it. I sent you a picture of it. I just need help to touch it again. I just need help that comes from nowhere to not lose it again.

And it spins in my mind like Binion’s million dollar makers. The reels always hitting bells
never any whistles. Or sometimes sweet cherries. They take the form of smiles, of understanding, of great sex. But that’s just stuff.

The stuff of dreams.

And I cry.

And you take off the mask, the sunglasses, the fake pride.
And you pull me up by the shoulders and wrap yourself around me because you feel my pain.

Coincidence? I think not.
It is Divine Synchrony.


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