It is as if
his mind is now
an avatar
that listlessly extends
a hand to
little bits of life –
soft and peeping,
sighing things
which don’t require
more
than random
slices of attention.
Belief in
anything is held
in temperate
suspension –
a mild
banality of drift. It is as if
he’s made some
final shift,
though we don’t
know to what.
He occupies a
comfortable rut
where And is the indifferent
equivalent of But..
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