The clouds tinged pink sky dead died

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The Clouds Tinged Pink, The Sky Dead, Died Blue;
An Expanse Of Absolute, Implicit Boredom Unfurling Before Me.
Endless Summer Days And Nights Meld Into Am Infinite Song,
Filled With Sempiternal Vagueness And Languid Choking Warmth.
Lethargy.
Yes, That’s Re Word.
A Perfect State Of Cultivated Boredom Filling Time Like Smoke:
Opaque But Without Substance.
I Wonder If Something Could Have Been Accomplished Had I Tried To Banish It.
Would My Mind Be Any Nearer Any Clearer If I Did?
I’ve Disassociated Reality From My Consciousness.
The Movements Rote Done Out Of Habit More Than Necessity.
Allowing My Mind To Meander Through Lalaland.
It’s A Wonderful Place, You Know.
Tragic, But Wonderful.
The Streets (Paved With Splintered Shards Of Surreal.
Lead To Nowhere-In-Particular Road And Memory Lane.
The Detours In Life Are More Important Than The Destinations Anyway.
Roseate, Swelling, Undulant Clouds In The Shape Of Poets, Past And Present,
Melt Slowly Across A Cyan Canvas.
I Paint A Mustache On Sara Teasdale And Laugh.
It’s All Rather DalƒÂ­ Like To Drift Through That Place.
In Your Mind.
Quite Alone.
There Was One Person..
Ah Well,
It’s Much Sweeter To Be Locked Away In Your Cranium Than Out There Anyway.
Not Sure If I Went Anywhere With This.
Not Sure If I Said Anything Of Much Substance.
But It’s More Than I’ve Done
For This Ceasless Span Of Time