Folded up reality, pressed thin to fit
on one page in my diary, all twenty
dimensions or however many String
Theory postulates – safely tucked
away and only the text in front of me
exists because today I am a totally
non-existent nonentity, my mind is
grey and no amount of colour in the
office, no amount of words, no notes
sounding in song, can fill the gaping
emptiness where hope once lived
let me pick up my cross of boredom
and be bored some more, tomorrow
I might feel different, if not, at least
the red-hot flames people’s anger
at my being delinquent will replace
the greyness with lively pain…
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