poems of exile
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With my mind in a solemn abyss of thought, with no direct association to anything, no new theories, & no security or validity for the previous ones, I still find an ordinary pleasure in placing the pen in my right hand & touching its tip to a blank page, dispersing its ink, shaping it into known hieroglyphs we've adapted as the written language. A vacant simplicity dictates this moment; a dedication to nothing, a blank stare into the forum of meditation, a swarm of boils in the existentialist batter. Within the pit of society I look within.
