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The coffee is never quite as warm
as I would like it to be,
but I accept its lukewarm comfort.

I wish that here were there
and there were here,
but here is also fine, I suppose.

I want to read in silence
and move to raucous music —
anything but being still,
though still is not a bad state of being.

I don’t look back
because that path bores me,
and while I am content with now,
I’m anxious for when.

There’s never enough sleep,
although I can’t say I’m tired.

There’s never enough
and too much
of any and all of it.

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