Or optionless, which comes out just the same.
All rooted in routine, stock still with fears,
Till choice is even less now than a name.
I've let the things I loved go slipping though
My grasp, like water held in shaking hands;
The days pass into months, and nothing's new.
And nobody I talk to understands.
I don't know if I've been dead, or asleep--
If waking resurrection's on the card
Or not. I just know things I thought I'd keep
Have disappeared, and finding them is hard.
I'm searching, though. It's tiresome and it's tough,
But something has to change. Today. Enough.
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