balancing attributes while reading duchamp

in the pit of my narcissism breathes a rhythm. and i have to find a way to connect it. to the outside. like how you walk with the wind. or how you sing with the shore. i’ve always been fascinated with it — the feeling of the universe exhaling with you. [the volume of green rolls around in itself. hashing up ashes of grey. presumptuous dirt. securing the tides. balked-at hills.]

but i get so lost sometimes — triangulating my worry to the point of self defeat. and i’m unable to look beyond the past. i fear an association of self-induced struggle, yet i try to rip out any formations of identity.
[who’s to say / what shall be-come of the galvanized bits?]

i want to blame my parents or blame any traumatic associations, but in the end i can’t. because then i lose my ability to actually see and feel that rhythm that connects.
[or of the leaky fumes and pulpits?]

there’s just so much more out there that has very little to do with me. and in order for me to connect, i have to let go.
[i have yet to forfeit my alleyways and streams, yet]

as just. just as. just. just. as just. just as. just. just.

as just. just as. just. just. just. just. just. just. just. just. just. just. just. just. just. just.

[a periodical point must push through and in — decaying any translucency to the point of unknown.
a radical b(l)ack]

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