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I couldn’t tell you if my mind made sense. There’s a filter failing every day. I’m bitter now. Have I been this way for a while, or did it happen in the dark? There’s nothing left to say. The shelves are piled to the top. The fickle furniture has started to stain and rot. There’s nothing left to say.
I cleaned the kitchen again. I took the dog for a walk. But the anxiety in between makes it hard to talk. I didn’t clean the floors or furniture. I didn’t turn off the light, ‘cause when I do there’s someone there that tells me that I’m right and there’s nothing left to say.
Am I going home or leaving? Did it crumble in the dust left by my subtle laziness that never seems to stop? There’s nothing left to say.