There is no end to it, the first sip that begins the slip
from which there is no escape, the slow inebriation, letting down the curtain between
tender thought and absolution wantonness, one slip leading to the next, and
then into that place where heavenly bodies clash, not a big bang, at least, not
yet, but a series of smaller ones, one after another, filling up every black
hole in this universe until we reach the stage of supernova we are too blinded
by to see, your lips on the lip of glass for that first sip, revealing what
lies behind the curtain, an urgency was always mistook for magic.
There is no end, no way to stop it once it’s started, we
must ride out the whole thing until it’s done, unable or unwilling to make it
stop.
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