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Photo by Tomáš Malík from Pexels

if my head houses a prediction machine,
it means all that I know could be used against me…
it means I can’t really see what’s out there —
my expectations run the show — my senses are
just matchmakers, hard-working approximators
letting me in on convenient clues of experience…
it means my past will always haunt me,
and my memories, faulty as they are,
act like ugly little templates, maps by which the way
is always long and awkward and unreliable…
it means I see…



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