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It might be crazy, but I’m the closest thing I have to a voice of reason. Irrationality swims around me in currents, sometimes when it seams that the water’s entirely still it just falls apart, rips at the seems like the way we did when your personal insanity took over; it’s not you, it’s me, seams they slowly tear into pieces and drift to the cafeteria floor like confetti falling from the sky on new years,..
I miss holidays, holy days, days I’d look forward to but I’d lied to you all these years, mailed a sealed envelope to some heavenly divine obese figure residing in a fictitious place, how do your seams hold together around an entire global populace’s cookies and milk, how do you store it, how doesn’t your belly button pop and cookies and milk just flood the earth, a typhoon of joy sinking into the minds of youth like your words sunk into mine, it’s not you, it’s not you… it’s not me, I’m just another believer, drowned under the weight of a bursted knot of a once tied umbilical cord,
I used to envy outie belly buttons. Mine was an innie since day one, perhaps the doctor stitched that one in too far when I finally washed ashore in july 1993, my presence comes in waves, political analysts say democracy comes in waves, calculus artists or mathematicians or gods of the numerical universe say that sine and cosine come in waves too. The universe operates in a back and forth motion, sways in, falls out, and thus I fell out with an innie belly button, tying these parallel universes together, and therefore I was stitched.
And I envy outie belly buttons because you look slimmer, as though your waist isn’t exploding with the plagues of the universe, swollen lipid cells expanding and never shrinking back, it’s the one evil of the world that doesn’t come in waves. Fat grows on, expands cells, and they remain that way. You diet and pray to some higher power that it’ll someday shrink back down to the 23 inch diameter once stamped on a piece of paper, but for now we are nothing but swollen cells of lipid. Coagulated fat cells melted together, not stitched, because it can’t burst the way I can.
And yet I’m bursting, it’s me, it’s me… things spilling onto the floor like confetti falling from the sky on new years’ and they spill from my mouth but it’s not you, it’s me; it might be crazy, but I’m the closest thing I have to a voice of reason.


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