the pursuit of happiness
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The blank slate, the black box, the impending nails in the coffin of time. These are the popsicles of children at play reflected in my thoughts of tomorrow. Drip, the sweet blue liquid drips to the scorching earth. Drip, I try to catch it to no avail. Drip, “but I can’t leave it alone”… Drip “I don’t wish to remove our interlocked souls”. Drip. Blind eyes don’t make for a blind heart. Drip… but I am only a popsicle, and my time has come, and there was no echo in the sound.