And I have become boredom, my own tears paperwhites adrift in watery broth, lost in grey. Without red, my orange hues yawning, my blues barely awake, I have settled into sleep and no man listens for morning. Who is it that wonders, now, if morning will come at all? When did eye patches grow where light used to shine from my eyes?

If life were to visit again, were to stop by without calling, wake me without easing me into it – if life were to thrust itself again into me now, that is what it would be. From outside in, life would have to arrive. I would listen from bed, half awake.

But I would listen.

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