stepping across the honeycomb of the mind i found a little home what was windowpaned in amber, encased by five walls of durable paper, gone gray. words were written there. i tried to make them out. i saw by the script they were my words. now it became a message from my past self i had to decipher. ten years old i was mostly lucky, and happy. i learned ways to deceive myself when i was sad. now i would and could not. i have to be real. tricks are for kids.
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