Ten years of sleeping
We float like unanchored stars, a moving sky with no pattern.
Where do the hip and directionless go?
Do they dissolve quietly at thirty something or are they caught in a numbers grid, like 9 to 5?
We find the unknown at this juncture. We flirt at the precipice that marks no boundaries.
But we always step back x3
and then the timings gone.
This part of our lives is like the ocean.
A perfect distance from the surface level to the floor.
This part of our lives is like the sea.
The currents move us along and make us beautiful as we drift.
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