I can hear the steady steady ticking of the clock,
heartbeat, counting counting down.
The second a profound of echo the first, and I cannot tell
whether I am the tick to your tock,
or versa-vice.
Every other beat is a signal, a flare, fire;
a nudge in the dark.
It is no illusion, optical
mighty or magic. This reality
is a luminous portent, filling
the spaces between oxygen and light.
At what point did we become a line
to measure life against, the rule that
exceptions escape from?
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