when I lived alone, my life was kind of empty
maybe, like a modern european apartment in spare whites

i had few intimate friends, i was out of reach of most of my relatives,
and i had no serious relationships. All human contact was mostly as and when I wanted and mostly out of the house, and it was spare at that

during those days I think adopted many props to live
my home, after the chaos I grew up in, was always picture perfect:
every coaster, every mat, even the spoons in the kitchen always perfect

over time, perhaps
i grew used to these props
and forgot what the chaos of the living - that I theoretically longed for - really felt like

now I know
it feels surreal
in many ways

like a dog with a bone it never expected, i dont quite know what to do with it

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