It was a cancer of the mind,
an insidious weeding out of my synapses,
and I didn't know why,
they weren't causing problems for anyone else,
It was a broken crayon,
like the black one,
the one we stole and put in our front backpacks,
and it was never going to draw out anything worthwhile,
or worth reflecting on,
but we liked sickness,
for the wrong reasons,
because it changed our understanding of time---
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