Between the lines of profundity I am mute.                                                    It is hubris that makes me speak –                                                            effortful attempts at seeming cogent.                                                   Maudlin sentiments, like bullets shot onto a page                                 struggle for supremacy.                                                                                      No matter the arrangement the fingers trigger the letters                           to ensure they are for no one’s eyes but my own.

What did I expect?

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