My thoughts walk barefoot on gravel roads—aching, slow, and scattershot.
My mind drifts like dusk in worn linen—frayed, faded, and folding in on itself.
My mind, grown tired of its tidy metaphors, slumps like a clerk at closing hour—unnoticed, necessary, numb.
My brain, vast as prairie land at sunset, lies fallow—dreaming the hush between thunderclaps.
My brain has taken...
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