I have a muse and I can’t tell the muse that it’s my muse, beacuse: when I speak you don’t hear, let alone listen. Should I listen or not, you speak loudly, overtaking and flooding me. I can’t but hear, see, dream..listen to all you give. Make me who I be. There is no joy, there ain’t no sorrow. Only the reception of my members to your flood, ro your flow. Everything you are is all I ever give. Worst is that you’re always around, I can never outrun you. The silence is my cell, the noise but a small distance, losing its absence.
What you do to me, you are well aware of, why else would you ever overtake me, as if you know of nothing?


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