The womb is made of television waves.
Of characters that I did not make.
Of crimes in which I did not partake.
The hi-fi wi-fi stereo sounds envelope.
They cancel all the outside noises.
They silence all the inside choices.
In all this papering blooms a story.
And I don't have to participate.
And I can jump straight in, complete.
But the paper and waves rip shockingly open.
As pretend life commercials thunderclap.
And as real life stuff pours suddenly back.
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