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Folly of a Preemie Precog.

She became everything.
The excuse I needed.

Her death
was the biggest
conceivable blow
to me, and I lurched
back, wind
knocked out

of me, and I came to rest
in a comfy cushion of: 
Well Then,
Fuck It.

Everything is gone.
Return to dust.

Nothing left
for me here. Gloves
are off. Everything
is permissible.

My future
is already history.

I know when I’m going to die.

So right now,
I own everything.

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