Does it feel like this? Inside your mind. More. Inside some cavity you feel but can't see, a mystic nothing, unsearchble, a fountain of story you took from without thought, but now you cast your net and it isn't that the net comes back empty, the net doesn't come back at all.
That's probably hubris.
Whining like that presupposes exchange, that a pen can bleed infinity dry, that my mind can see an end to circles. My melancholy is less than a nothing, a petty criminal, a repeat offender come to steal hope at the end of one miracle as another miracle gets set to unfold. I've met this melancholy before. I saw him last time and the time before, but hope stolen is hope gone. It returns when it returns.
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