Conditions are specific.
You’ve seen many sort-of selves
Into which to cast yourself,
Living in fame and fiction.
But how many conditions—
How many with conditions
Mirroring your conditions?
That’s what you’d love, admit it.
If your conditions are rare,
Or loathed, or unspeakable,
They won’t match to much fiction.
If you’re an outright mutant—
One-of-a-kind condition—
Brace your hopes with empty shelves.
Why crave a perfect echo
Of the vectors you transect?
You dreamt that experiment
In which conditions begin
The same but end up different.
Go. Get on with your vague self.
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