Everything feels hectic.
Like the circles I'm running in are shrinking, and every so often I bump shoulders with myself.
Well, excuse me, didn't see you there.
If I could grab hold of something (anything!) along the way that indicates I'm heading in the right direction, maybe there would be room for a breath or a gasp or a sigh. A sign amongst hundreds.
Now I scrub at the words I've spread out to others, and wish to retain the ink for myself.
I wring the sponge, watch blackish water drip,
find safety in its silent slip away.
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