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On the Fridge.

All that is provided
by deaths and lives
amounts to environment
and instinct:

they are influences,
not one’s definition.
Reality’s spectrum,
not your favorite color.

One is not a mere product
of one’s context, after all,
but what one
fashions in the face

of its marriage
with the web
in which we embed

we call it destiny,
fate. We are smeared,
trailing, frantic paths
of crayon, liberated,
personally determined,
individually willed

in a manner
entirely unhindered
by the provided lines

and displayed
for your small
world to see.


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