At eight years, I'd sprawl across a solid bed.
Upon the monolith, my eyes soon dimmed.
But my fingers relaxed against a blank thickness--
a negative substance of my muscles' contraction.
Now, I romance the idea. I glorify it as a measure
of faces, of modern art, and of unfamiliar music.
Where my slackened mind finds substance,
there are bedsheets to lie within.
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