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Cold and tired and tennis
starving, perhaps—

neon orange and seaweed
go well together, realise—

and boysenberry too,
as the record spins
and crackles, and all.

My foolish heart,
detour ahead—
stealing words here,
good to steal.

Because art exists—

and is born, must be
in that liminal space between
ecstatic abandon to life
and a tragic longing—
for death.