Not that Descartes waxed wrong,
but being and thinking
deviate.
The first, a matter entirely not up to itself
The second,
Impossible without about.
One cannot think oneself into existence,
But one can think oneself out.
If I think about you,
I am human.
If I love you,
I am a slave
to thought.
And the red balloon
launched into flight
Just before dawn
raised her golden head
and sleep changed
thought to dreams.
Ah, to dream.
There’s that nasty
rub.
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