i am brushing
my teeth then
climbing a tree then
making a list then
flying away-
wait, so,
i hate flying
because, well 
falling and flailing
that is to say
i keep reaching
into near distances
to lift a curtain
behind which
i find instances
of myself
looking back at me
holding the same 
diaphanous fabric
beholding the same
stage and audience
its more than 
that keeps me
pulling at threads
of reality.
its always the 
last time,
near the last line,
where i accept,
‘okay fine’
that all i am
sits here in this room
dreaming wandering
avoiding the
gloom and 
escaping tasks
that are  
launching me,
out of me
just to see
if i should be
doing anything
other than 
brushing my 

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