the time machine tramples its metaphor. stray cinema in the distribution of change. tomorrow threads its needle. absently mending the gap in inertia.
the distance chokes on its last words. ambivalent confessions stumbling down broken staircases.
the minute details color feverishly inside the lines. while dense amateurs attempt to edit their losses.
how far becomes a reflection of how close it once was.
againt the relentless momentum of conceit.
the dismal corners tease their answers. stained pillows on beds where we can no longer rest.
the time machine paces between now and then. a failed constant in the crippling perpetuity of flesh.
the distance continues. a borrowed conjunction. too stubborn to care.
whether the quetsions it's asking can ever be answered.
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