I question myself but do not know myself. The part of my life not wasted in thinking up confused interpretations of nothing

I question myself but do not know myself. The part of my life not wasted in thinking up confused interpretations of nothing at all has been spent making prose poems out of the incommunicable feelings I use to make the unknown universe my own. Both objectively and subjectively speaking, I’m sick of myself. I’m sick of everything, and of everything about everything.

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