eyes gloss over.
echoes become angry
with our anti-reactions.
they love,
they leave,
they live lives as echoes only can
it is up to us to fill them
with our ever-dieing
voice
trembling with the happy thoughts
of purple, and lime wedges
that support the Becoming.
and we gloss over together.
and the echoes are transferred
into the space that will contain them.
only a veritable Aeolius
and his bag of winds
can restrain me now
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