The Voice I Read These Words In Is Yours

Life is a mystery. The way things fall into place and out of place, weaving in and out of time like a dozen mad spectral spiders, temporally displaced, is maddening. I pulled the sword from the stone and cut the Gordian knot, making things easier and more difficult at the same time.

I planted this bamboo forest, creating a maze that you hope you never get out of. It sways with the wind, and raps on the window because it forgot its key. Someone keyed my car with an electronic key. I noticed, because I see in the ultraviolent spectrum, and read in the the infraread. Reading is just moving words past my face rapidly, like one of those flip books that gives the illusion of moving images by using actual images changed slightly. This is much slower, because all the images are in my head, and the voice I read these words in is yours.

I tried to get through to you, but something was jamming my signal. Signals got crossed, and crossed signals are as angry as crossed arms, especially with that stern gaze, dear. I sneaked around back to peek into the window, but I could only see into your soul. Your eyes were the windows to your soul, and I looked out of them into the world. The colors defied chaos, daring it to make things more surreal somehow. I looked into and out of your eyes, and saw the world, because you were my world, and you created me. You made me this way.

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