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Upon waking up from the final dream
oh, finite period, how you mock me.
you are an eternal reminder of the ending to everything human
(for my dream of orange peels forever unfurling
seems to have been an illusion, and even the words promising
forever fall flat: but i cannot sing, and the words
are music, so i dare not articulate.), and
the only thing that truly remains infinite is the
inevitability of the finite. (answer me now, stars, before
i shatter into the perfect square of a broken cube.) i
used to marvel at the absurdity of humans to arrange
the stars in constellations when it was
the randomness of their light that gave them
beauty, but now i marvel at the untampered
humanity that gesture implicates. (they say we are all
made of pieces of forgotten stars) and so saying, i
contort myself into a corner of a hopelessly naive
and imperfectly finite constellation composed of
human stardust.
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