Fragment of Halves
Induced are some stories, some stories we induce.
Somewhere, half baked beans are sprouting, somewhere the milk on the stove is unknowingly half boiled.
Half and half, living in an abode of halves, too preoccupied we are, measuring halves.
Conversations have waved goodbye, only to be welcomed as radiant reduction. Self is juggling with the self, weaving time, knowing it can gather none. Mornings shout mundane, toiling harshly in the hope of awaiting, awaiting grim silences, only to realize in their silence, they have no one. The regime of halves remains unheard. Somewhere, forgotten in the fragment of halves.
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