For ten minutes last night I crumbled after cracks - formed like the jagged routes of early ice -
appeared with a frosty glance and a unappealing handshake.
Stencilled, cut down to size, made into a less flattering, less fun shape
in a playdough ritual.
In my prism of shock I struggled against a former thought, a thought that everything was o.k.
a thought that everything was flattering and fun.
After this ten minutes, everything was o.k. and flattering and fun and o.k.
which made me realise that quite a lot of the time I must live for the short term.
So I decided I would try and have a good ten minutes. And I did.
Except for former thoughts (from the last ten minutes).
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