We ain't sure, I mean AI ain't fully a wayback machine,
because there's these
pay walls, and the gates are guarded by **** site viruses
that will
hook you if you look, curiously enough,
any thing the kinks could find
kept getting harder to find,
you can get it, on rt 66,

or what remains of the road, in minds of those who
hitched it, both directions,
drove in a big golden semi, during CRST apprenticeship
failure for inattention to mirrors,

"he's lost his mirrors", I over heard.
Thus I was fired because the most important part
of freight haulin'
is slow backing into spaces precisely one trailer wide,

bump bump bump. Each bump has a story,
each has a moral as any story self-evident does.
- story looks at you, in those now found mirrors
- a haul of mirrors, shards of some
- now play fractal source of confusion as to
what
were we thinking?

What's worth remembering
Is hard to say,
Words being less than innocent,
Harder to  avoid than
Disappointment
Or the boneyard
And seldom adequate,
Even when arranged
Carefully,
Like a fresh cut spray
On the remains
Of what was once
Alive.

I stand

  in front

    of you
  
I can see,

  See...
  
... Me

Now is it all so

    true?

All of you...

...is all of me?

Deep within

    your layers

      of skin
  
Reflecting;

  inner self,
  
    myself,
    
      my dear
    
        friend
      
Where do I begin?

     I am you,

And you are me

Everyone else:

too blind to see

        That
    
We're all One,

        Truly