In my dream, language reaches the point of no return. This miasma
of immemorial memes loses my attention. Adverbs fold in on themselves, ‘ands’
unjoin what they brought together. Full-stops look ludicrous in their millions,
scattered like atoms, or zillion planets telescopes cannot perceive. There are
colourful adjectives for this feeling of losing language, adjectives not
repeated in polite company, but adjectives too are dissolving as loss sets in,
or chaos, or a bad coffee. Expletives self-delete. There is only us, attempting
forgiveness, reaching out, somewhere where nouns are non-sense and verbs are in
the past. April is history, asleep.
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