Our
substance is two yards of energy and entropy. We dwell within, somewhere between
empathy and closure. We came from the sea, water predominates predates us, substance
formed from near-formlessness. In every gesture we hand back the generations,
hand them on. September in the south rouses our substance anew, sunlight in the
blood stream, cool thrills of fluid active minds, food enough. Why fill
ourselves with substance that kills, only yes some of us do. Liquor breaks the
storied delicacy we own once. Opium sends us mad asleep and Ice would kick down
doors to be not-Ice again, born free.
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