A flimsy lifeless thread hangs over our heads. The current passes through its terminals and teases the contents that shelf itself upon its wires. It plays the ecstasy of electrical music, a tune too great for mankind to indulge. The meat is dry and crisp, the vegetables steamed moist. Microwave.

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I know no one will read this, and even if they do they will no fully understand. I am just trying to exercise my composition, trying to thaw from the deep frost that I have survived, trying to rekindle my love for language, trying to be me again.