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On this cold summer morning, I pull my extra cover over my hairless aging legs. The moon seems to be going through some strange end times faze.
I enjoy my coffee and dare to watch the dreadful world news, nothing seems to changes, we’re still being lied to.
Hidden bigotry in plain sight,
manufacturing a reason to strike.
When will the cold morning fade
into the restful sleep of yesterday’s
……….
Traveler Tim
i left on a tuesday because mondays felt too cinematic.
threw a bag in the backseat —  
socks, notebook, polaroid of no one
and drove until the road forgot how to spell my name.
some towns didn’t even have exits,
just rusted signs and dust thick enough to bury a prayer.
Why’s he always so sorry?
So sorry for his existence?
So sorry for his breath?
So sorry for his space?
So sorry for his energy?
So sorry for his boundary?
His opinion?
His command for attention?
His shadow?
So sorry for being sorry.
So sorry.

Not sorry at all.
The world is a game
My life is a show
With more technology, less humanity
The fake becomes real
The real becomes fake
No amount of satire
Can erase this shame
Near  A River That Runs Deep

There's A Place With No Streets

Where I Love To BE On my Own

And Greet The Silence Of Being HOME...

In the Silence & Debra Lea Ryan
1st Verse
G6-EM/A -EM
26.04.2025
In Song @ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fh1Yv1IK0D8 < Feeling a little Meditative.
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