But here, where a TV plays
Upstairs, and a nocturne plays
From a phone on a table
Downstairs. If you’re not busy
In your world with everyone
Still in it, will you read this
For sustenance? You will not,
Unless you’ve recently felt
Marooned from the tangible,
Island in a sea of words
Approximating voices
In your skull. We’re those voices,
Some of them. Row home. Row home.
We’re murmuring. Shut us down.
You have no choice—you have to
Choose, so you might as well choose.
Among hallucinations,
There are mainly two. The world
That dreams with no words in it.
The words that everyone dreams.
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