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you laugh yourself awake, spinning on the revolving door of feeling— sadness, hope, anger, indifference, others. you pluck the ones you want out by their eyes and discard the rest. savor the spite on your tongue: the bitter almonds. you must keep moving. you must keep life beautiful at all costs. the buck moon beckons. you’ve been here before; you’re no stranger to the climb; you’ve no shortage of friends or lovers. you feel almost at peace as you step onto their necks, and over. you will not look back into that well. there are no reflections to find.