This is unexpected. This is beyond me. This is something else. This envelops and suffocates. This is sublime and so, dangerous. This is the second work, and the seconds it covers are yet unknown. This is my past. This is their past. This is what makes sense to me, for me. This is what I know, when I know I don’t. This is something which is personal and impersonal. This is the people I have loved, hurt and been loved and hurt by.

This is the people who feel pleasure in pain. This is the honesty and the dishonesty of that. This is every opportunity shaped as a sledgehammer that broke me. This is the calluses on the hands of those wielding judgement that splits one into two. This is an acceptance of perpetrator by victim. This is a sinking into the symbiosis of master and slave.

This is the darkest humanity, and the lightest of human angels. This is the inherent contradiction of life. This is incompleteness, an exception upon which rules are predicated. This is my frustration at those I would be saviour to. This is their frustration at my arrogance. This is my gratitude for all of it. This is neither black nor white. This is surrender.

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