spillage

i want to walk along long streets which stretch away into infinite curves and give birth to endless other streets

i want to stand on hilltops and breathe in the liquid sensation of the millions of people alive and awake below me in their winking homes

i want to hear in order to listen,

and listen in order to hear

every second i can feel my mind changing, developing, morphing, malleable with the information it contains making impressions on the outer surface.

a panic of creativity overcomes me and I am frozen for seconds, minutes, hours, how long?

the feeling in my gut continues to whoop and tumble and spiral, what is it? fear, anxiety, excitement, a combination of the three?

i am reeling at life, reeling at the terror and the horror and the wonder of it all, all the people, all their lives being lived at the same time yet in alternate timelines

i want to pace, i want to participate but passively, always on the sidelines and observing and recording. my hands are shaking with the velocity of the thoughts spilling out of the ends of my fingertips, pounding into the keyboard and out through into the ether

what am i, who am i, where am i, and does it matter

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spillage

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