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#automatism
Our character, not reputation, is made by what we might believe and do. I'll lose nothing worse than the integrity, and the community I knew My first point consisting of lines 1 and 2, each gathered aloud and stuck here- 10 couplets replace my midterm critique points, decisively sincere. By forgoing my 5 actual presentational points, there’s something to gain, (and of course, somethings are lost-) but now, there's this immediate, specific task at hand: & a finish line to cross. To communicate initially, I think not, to anyone who'll hear word's plain, is to admittedly, be victimized- in my 8th and final year, like the children who began their march, from grade school right through here. Would be like reporting the act, back to the top, somehow extrapolating the embarrassment’s thought. The pain of understanding, in this dismal horror-show's play, we notice, pain, well, just isn't a real emotion, although it's experience feels that way. new arts are born from thievery, despite my forsaken property- the call I heard, then rose to serve- was stupid with tenacity. 10 stanzas worth of couplets, engulfed like flames, the page This digital bleakness in which we all dwell, stained white with expressionist rage. sometimes anguish comes, and then sometimes, sorrow stays- but even now when I think of you- trouble goes away. Oh, how these days mimic the Night, In their dizziness- at freedom's height Tethered together- do they placate or testify? Primary anxieties intensify.
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Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 3:56 PM UTC
Midterm Critique
Our character, not reputation, is made by what we might believe and do. I'll lose nothing worse than the integrity, and the community I knew My first point consisting of lines 1 and 2, each gathered aloud and stuck here- 10 couplets replace my midterm critique points, decisively sincere. By forgoing my 5 actual presentational points, there’s something to gain, (and of course, somethings are lost-) but now, there's this immediate, specific task at hand: & a finish line to cross. To communicate initially, I think not, to anyone who'll hear word's plain, is to admittedly, be victimized- in my 8th and final year, like the children who began their march, from grade school right through here. Would be like reporting the act, back to the top, somehow extrapolating the embarrassment’s thought. The pain of understanding, in this dismal horror-show's play, we notice, pain, well, just isn't a real emotion, although it's experience feels that way. new arts are born from thievery, despite my forsaken property- the call I heard, then rose to serve- was stupid with tenacity. 10 stanzas worth of couplets, engulfed like flames, the page This digital bleakness in which we all dwell, stained white with expressionist rage. sometimes anguish comes, and then sometimes, sorrow stays- but even now when I think of you- trouble goes away. Oh, how these days mimic the Night, In their dizziness- at freedom's height Tethered together- do they placate or testify? Primary anxieties intensify.
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Dull throbbing twilight. I bit my tongue so hard it bled. A voice spoke: said she'll be in Europe, unmerged. I will be in Europe. Take this moment alone to hide behind the earth. Pain as an open door, forward motion encouraged. Written word repeated today: begin your _year_.     Robed in fluid, and in hurt, obsequious dead anchored In dusted pillars rise. ​ An object held motionless by the sun’s gaze. A vital outpouring of stillness, as ninety degrees of intensifying steps                             cascade like waterfalls.
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Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 5:51 PM UTC
Ataraxia