If this is only a feeling temporarily suspended in time,
A moment frozen in our ethos, yet lucid like awakenings,
Breathing its first air in a panicky gulp as if just released from the depths to life again,
Like a geriatric new born.
If this is only a moment in time, a thread in the quilt, a strand in the twine,
And I will surely wake up tomorrow with it buried inside of me again,
Chest bruised and concave,
Unaware, like a servant to the path, like a pawn in the game,
Not privy to the gravity of the connection,
Blocking my thoughts with distraction and disintegration.
If this is the case, then I want to take my time browsing the gift shoppe.
I want to eyeball every shining mounted stone and rabbit pelt inside.
I want a souvenir to take with me into the void.
I want to hold a trinket in my hand while in my coma.
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