You know, there is a certain point in the future
Where even the worst disaster starts resembling an anecdote
When things that matter and those that didn’t become
Faces of the same tapestry, parts of the same thing
Slightly different, but equally important in the bigger picture
Much like coincidence and intent, he said, sniffing the hoarse smell
Of humid leaves burning, hunching over the fire
Slowly sipping on the expensive crisp green yellow wine
With that self assuring, maddening way of old people
Who believe that just because they accumulated years
They hold the truth, entirely
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