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May 30, 2011
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I wonder if time is simply a suspension of another sort
Life being the medium which we rotate, translate,
Interrogate those around us, suspicious of any act that dares to infringe on our own
Space, a bubble of fortitude, moat encircled,
We are proud and alone—
We are not a mixture, our longings like beads
Held by our hands, we hope they do not fall
As the waters flush our cheeks and waves tousle our brow,
Our beings are sorted and pushed down
But not mixed
We can only remain who we are if we try

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