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December 20, 2020
Turning around to don a new mask is my way of the world that has no clear definition, no repeatable identity. I'm in its flux as the mutable persona, a laugh, a cry, a nod to nothing for its own good but a shadow to hide within. What good comes of the turning is a question that has no answer but the inevitability inherent in being where you are as you are. Grabbing ahold of the railing to steady one's trajectory is a common gesture, pretending at stasis. It all changes. Nothing stays. The flow of the I is perpetual.