I thought there was no ending
Six months seemed infinite
As I laid beneath the canvas
with nothing on it
So I went, willing, into the dream
I wandered back onto the canvas
found my way back around
somehow, through all of the blank space,
I could still hear the sound of what I remember
the nodes swollen up on my neck
and I don't know if it was anger then
or something else
Now I can't forget what that promise meant:
If I worry myself to death, they'll remember me like this.
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