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Box

Harrowed, worn thing. Skin box -
peeling
looser every day.
Open it. There is nothing.
Close it, and explosions.
Reactions of happy to sad to discontent to everything.
Nothing can stop it.
Delve deeper, only skin exists.

Things disappear in it.
Any ideas put into it are lost, like vague freckles brought on by the sunshine of brief enlightenment gradually fading away to pale.

But it is neat and tidy and inconspicuous.

It exists as a statue, lamenting me.
It conceals all and reveals nothing.
There is nothing.
Written by JamieCummins
Published
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