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Grace Hammond


These words
that are my own
Are my blood and
are my bones.

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A Universe in Passing

November 6, 2015


She's not in the crowd. 

They weave their bodies around her as thread through fabric pulls. A spilling mass engulfing space, they brush past one another with their eyes on the ground. But she is not one of them. 
She is aberrant; impartial to their ceaseless desire for rapidity. Their blurred faces reflect in her eyes, but she does not feed the flames of their urgency. She feels the heat on her skin and inhales the bitter smoke, but she does not succumb to its blind agitation. She does not relish in the indomitable yearning, does not carve a piece of the fire to heal the cold in her own heart.

She simply beholds, her perceptions contributing to the interminable expanse of thought and memory constituting her mind. She is stagnant, but she is vibrant with abstraction, and her eyes entomb conceptions touched by her gaze alone. 
She is small; a tiny creation amidst an infinite sea of concsiousness. She is only one, her brain a mere replica of a common machine, but the impressions it bears are unequivocally her own. 

And she is nothing in this universe that will subdue all forms of life. 
But she is the universe made of a world entirely her own. 


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