They say a lot of things, they don’t understand.

They react to pain, current and inherited.

They hate you, real and imagined.

They sit in the waiting room, agitated,

not knowing from second to second whether and/or if their time is coming, now.

Like evil little lambs to the slaughter…

Stomachs churn.

 

Forward? Hah! Trying to wipe out the past. Fixated on what was, losing sight of what is. Sigh. Progression feels like regression.

 

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