None of it means anything, time tricks m, the acts we engage
in, this scramble for joy, all forgotten eventually, like old pages to a
calendar we have no more use for, the X marks of the jailbird counting down
days of a prison sentence, we did nothing to achieve, this working things out (as
she was called it), terrifying to the insignificance of a thing I put such
significance in, green-eyed over something I have never seen save for my
imagination, a meaningless thing she does with meaningless people, leaving me
to wonder if in the end of it all, I am as meaningless to her as they are, and
all if I have invested, pointless gestures, soon forgotten
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