Everything is partially composed, already written, already decomposing in my mind as we sit and title all the things we cannot define. You share your good intentions, and I share my unfounded beliefs. They both settle into eclipse: hopes obscured by truths. I wonder sometimes what good it does to pretend we can be anything other than what we are. The lines were drawn long ago. If we're genuine, then they don't matter. But I can only speak for myself.
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