Some part of me needs to be taken out behind the barn and shot by some other part of me.
I’m not sure which part is writing this. Perhaps that will become clear once we make it behind the barn.
What then? The ribbon of film runs out And you think: In one sense you’ve lost yourself, But in another you haven’t because
Who is this you you’ve lost? Said another way, who was that you And who is the you who feels the loss?
A man signs a shovel and so he digs.
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