My one is coming. Soon.
Patience. I now know the gifts this art can grant you. But I'm done with it.
I ain't no patient anymore.
I think I owe it to me.
To demand now. To ask straight questions.
And now I demand patience.
For I'm a patient of patience
and all my pavements have long been paced off

You know the feeling when you're rethinking and reconsidering and recollecting things and pictures and feelings,
and I'm not sure how it goes cos drunkness followed me all the way.
I'm not revisiting. That's a promise.

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I wish I could write something so opaque

Does this mean you like it?


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