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Jan 2018
My fingers sometimes feel like they were meant for more.

I close my eyes and feel the realities clashing against each other.

A myriad of choices drowned out by the distance of a universe. I can see a trillion different fingers gripping pencils in different ways.

Watch from a billion pairs of eyes as my brain trickles art into the air in a billion different dreams. Count the infinite variations rippling out from each song I sing.

Each tune never played writes the outlines of the sketches I've only felt. The rings of possibilities never to pass pull themselves back into the pond. Memory retracting light from infinite universes.

I remember it's just me. In the dark writing words that don't seem to gleam like all the things my dreams wish I could be.
Prescott Emile Sutton
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