he
drinks
his
mornings
afternoons
nights
in
ounces
surpassing
mind
in
ways
that
ferment
rituals
of
time
thinking
nothing
of
what
he
speaks
his
life
passes
him
in
fast
weeks
the
days
seem
to
remain
with
no
name
or
number
as
the
complexities
descend
from
meaning
as
if
they
were
thunder
where
have
you
been
my
lonesome
friend?
they
would
ask
him
that
but
time
after
time
after
time
they
only
fold
into
the
bend
well
I
I
wish
I
could
say
I
knew
him
of
other
sorts
sorts
and
places
when
and
where
maybe
my
words
could
would
devise
contorts
just
like
they
used
to
just
like
they
always
have
I
am
not
so
sure
on
giving
up
just
yet
you
see
my
words
are
ways
of
things
of
places
of
people
of
love
he
has
got
something
or
at
least
he
had
something
before
am
I
too
late?
did
tomorrow
come
before
I
thought
of
today?
someone
once
told
me
that
either
way
I
cannot
care
but
that
same
someone
taught
me
how
to
use
harmful
weaponry
the
geographical
and
the
mental
and
the
sometimes
separate
desires
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