Felix Culpa

do we care? you ask, looking at the floor. we broke the jar or rather you broke the jar and i am an accomplice in determining the wickedness of this action. there’s sticky mango preserve everywhere but i guess we don’t care. i spend an entire august afternoon learning about memory (loss) after i fail to recollect a single stanza from the love song of j. alfred prufrock. there’s time for a hundred indecisions, visions and revisions, before the taking of a toast and tea. that day i do everything i am supposed to and feel quite enchanted with the human experience. this isn’t so bad, i think. i confuse emotions and objects and concepts: light, joy, frankincense, labyrinthine museums, softness that tastes like peonies, winter’s end, “save the bees by planting catmints”, clemency. my mood ring never changes color and i walk towards the rabbit hole with sweet indifference

an afterthought, a remembrance: do i dare disturb the universe


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