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furniture balanced on a tightrope
by Curtis Whitecarroll

it is enough to question whether I exist at all
the small clicking of years, falling silent eventually against
the expanse of time itself having already written itself infinite in its own pages,
it will keep doing this,
building up these layers of blankness above and below us all
we walk this tiny string we have balanced our cradles and sofas and coffins upon,
soon, this tightrope will break,
and again we will fall through that vast expanse we had spent all of time
before this little blip of being


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