At a certain point,
you will lower your head to the pen.
There will be a man speaking to the world
as you write. It is understood
that he intends to become you,
to somehow push you off the ledge
of your own existence.
Already you have no name–
now he can prove you never did.
Even as he twists your voice,
it is ink which instead emerges, silent,
smelling of business and memory. This silence
now must be what speaks,
since we are all well past the point of listening.
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