She heard herself grunt and moan, yet shadowy
not quite to be seen and quite rarely heard
now, shapeless and tattered, hearing the voice
of another moaning loudly, grunting.
A fantasy. All time for thinking passes,
all that's remaining read about, labelled,
had begun to spin, shaking, till morning
mourning the dead of one's own self, more sleep
neglected when the desire to dream's thwarted,
circling below the ceiling undetected,
abandoning turning. Do you believe
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