Exhale.
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I lift up the marred sheet of graph paper and slowly pivot it to orthogonality with the plane of the desk. As I do, eraser dust drips from its eaves, relics of my past mistakes, my past reconsiderations, my fallibility. I do not read, but simply gaze upon the perfectly squared blue lines ravaged by my angry gray squiggles.
With each new stanza, I see my neat trains of logic decompose into hieroglyphic emotion... one by one they derail... sluggishly... arduously... unstoppably.
***
I no longer love what I do.
With each new stanza, I see my neat trains of logic decompose into hieroglyphic emotion... one by one they derail... sluggishly... arduously... unstoppably.
***
I no longer love what I do.


