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There are no such things as imaginary numbers to rely on when you’re lonely at the tail end of the summer. No wonder I’m dumber every day just a little. There are no ghosts in new houses, no adult content to filter – what I see is what it is; there are no false numbers to miss when I am adding up my tab (the exact number on the cab that picked us up tonight or last). There is no square root of a negative – no amount of soft chapstick could get me to admit there is, no new year’s hope or birthday wish would ever serve to help convince me or you that it exists. And I feel similar, if anything. I mean, what’s the use pretending that a fraction’s never-ending? As for me, I will be tending to a small worn-out collection of things that I remember being good enough to section off for practical safe-keeping. Imaginary may mean fleeting. Tell me if you love me, someday. There’s an imaginary part of me I’d like to start completing.

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~ by perfectionatrix on September 5, 2011.

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