Poetry is useless if you're talking about yourself, he rants into the dark apartment. No one cares that you're a drunk. Piles of my self-revolving whisky rants blush in their corners, but what else can they do? They have nothing to say except what they know. Winter arrives in a rage, suddenly every street corner is an assault. I don't recognize the skin at my fingertips anymore but my face in the mirror is reassuring. You got off track for a minute.
But sheets of paper don't lie, when people tell you who they are believe them, when November hits you cannot reasonably be surprised at winter winds, my alarm is set for far too early but my bills are paid, the Universe will not take without giving something in return.
The Universe will not give, without taking something when it goes.
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