Statement to Self
We are not the children of love we are the children of war.
We have other reputations as well.
Your hand can’t get tired, it hasn’t got eyes.
Memory is full of alterations, facts, short-cuts.
This is an attempt to make things clear, a spatial rendition of time.
I am already regretting the whole thing, will pretend it doesn’t exist.
We are different people this morning.
No-one talks to anyone they don’t already know.
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