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                I am not
                recovered from the
                hollow purpose of life
                that makes my neck crick
                and my hair fall out that droops
                my mouth and hangs my liquid eyes
                to gaze above the heads for hope and see

                                that no one else is either at the garden café





eyes wormhole: three musicians
hair & mouth wormhole: gre[wh]y / has Daddy left us?
life wormhole: Sunday afternoon
others & talking to myself wormhole: after all?
pointlessness wormhole: now, have I forgotten anything
realisation wormhole: lo
settling wormhole: the stance of Buscema // qualitatively