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A month ago it was fall,
Now it's summer. I recall sensation,
A breeze ambled through conifers, evergreens
sway slightly against the dark indigo sky.

We enjoyed social company this weekend.
Bad luck had a friend break his ankle yesterday.
I am not hungover this June Monday,
I'll exercise and later on

I'll make some electronic music.
I have this sense, remember, I have Roses
(Imanbek remix) - SAINt JHN
stuck in my head.
The past on repeat, calm me.
Either "my head is a jungle" or my life's a maze.

Told myself I should get to America by 27.
I hear some euphoric vocal.

Earlier I took naproxen, esomeprazole, paracetamol
to alleviate the strain caused by excessive screen-time.
I'm such an addict. Was it a lie, that I managed to forget?
Me, a dopamine ******.
Autonomous sensory meridian response.
I hear the echoes of a lone house party
spill its tunes upon this cool summer night's aer.

I listen to the soft breeze carry sweet music
drifting across our kenopsic city.

Lounging from my bedroom windowsill,
I imagine what potential
our lives have

and wish for strength to make it real.
Soft earth between my fingers

breathe sempiternal
to shirk the sun.

I'm leaving
"the days that must happen to you".

I'm gone.

"How will we ever get out
of this labyrinth of suffering? -AY
Straight & Fast."

I hear you
but you're gone.

Line Five seen at the smoking spot in Looking For Alaska (2019) S1E8; appears in Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman.
Possibly proposed as an answer to Alaska's question.
Lines Seven, Eight, and Nine from from Looking For Alaska by John Greene.
The thought occurred to me again,
Whether we should praise forgetting.

Sometimes I think it would be a relief
to delete everything
so the time that's passed falls to our wayside.
I don't know why
I consider living this way. Is it wrong?

You read the straw that broke the thought I rode in on.
It was a blade of grass once.

The Æon Illuminate sought ॐgolessness
to escape the ∀xiom of suffering.

The Cybran §ymbionte became 0therwise
by chaining themselves to ∃xistence.

Neither afraid to burn through their essence
nor torch the old world.
I've always marveled
at the aptness inherent
in the trivial meaning-making
which coined the term 'four-twenty'.
It speaks to the nature of the stuff.

Here's to 4:20, 4/20, 4.20,
We mark it a holiday In Praise of Idleness.

Who could have known the antics
of a handful of high schoolers
in San Rafael, California
should be the origin of this celebration
of cannabis culture.
Humble beginnings.
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