the immutable fabric i am made of
is composed of imperfect stuff
once i read somewhere:
history,
language,
squalid human incident
and dreams
the first three are the
witches which once bore witness
"fair is foul, and foul is fair..."
the last is incapable of
washing the bloody hands of our
individual pasts
knowing perfectly well
"the past isn't dead.
it isn't even past."
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