typing is not writing I am dwelling
in the pyramid dig through treasures
unseen unread unreadable priceless
art bubbling every eye transformed
it is always the same but the pattern
changes infinite chance revealing
more than known less than actual
people doing everything people do
I trust only what I've written out
of mind memory makes up tales
too simple to describe furniture
cars creatures where I happen to be
or anecdotes from days the usual
drift but things get done between
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