some time down the fragmented thick line of tomorrows and mornings, you have to believe that the you you were is somehow a seed of the you you are, even if the enigma of your past drunken blunderings and torn love-lorn poetry (eventually as crumpled as crusty panties) fails to sequin itself on the hem of the evening gown of your fastfading youth. So at some indefinite and blurry point, all those selfish sips of a center which could have been no other than love will purge themselves in the name of conclusion. The regurgitation will only gleam, slippery and reeking of regret, puddled at your feet like maggots on carrion, but it will not peel itself off the barren soil which you have paved with your indulgences. That cast-off you once called love will not grow lanky legs to stomp all over your future with flappy old shoes-- not unless you let it. you could see the maggots for what they are (a little ecology only hurts the loners): decomposers of the substance left over when all the meaning has been sucked out of inspiration. The maggots thrive on the emptiness you should strive to contain.
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