There are days when there is no meaning
to what you do, to the tedious curl out of the bed
rolling the cover from your middle and throwing
it into a repetition of yesterday's crumpled dreams
sometimes there are blanks, in the beginning
the progress and the end of the way the days fold
into your age, a year, another
sometimes, there are days when history repeats
what others informed, left behind
most days mean nothing on their own
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