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October 16, 2017
You're sitting in a room with a television, cold and alone, your eyes transfixed in its dangerous blue light. You can't resist, you don't want to resist, and you say lovely words but the actions don't match because the disease (the habit) has reached its grip deep into you. You don't really care about the future because it seems so distant and unattainable. You don't remember the past. The present is passing as quickly as the images on the screen. Too quickly.

I have written too many poems like this before. Everything I could write for you has already been written.