What sits in this swivel-chair?
What sits, amidst the tangle of electric cords, the books and papers, a discarded teacup?
can this debris be said to be mine, I its, or is it more of a mutual arrangement?
Drowsy-gummy eyes, brought on by flue medicine.
Hands that could easily span the entire keyboard, brought on my genetic (ill) fortune
and the dissonance between the look and feel of them.

Photocopies from art catalogues line the walls, hastily placed
to ward off magnolia’s monotony
Shoes in need of replacement,
words in need of absorption,
pixels in need of pushing.
And It’s over
I go back.
I wait.
Possible work
and perhaps return.

It seems counter-intuitive to say that my body drags me.
When I seem to drag it, not so much for the walking, or the doing, but for the now very abstract goals.
But however one looks at it, it will continue.
The moment will trundle on
The speculation will continue to dance at its head,
and the ramshackle edifice will continue to grow in its wake.

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