I'm going to start posting chunks of crap that I've written or played with. My attention span is so short that nothing ever goes anywhere except poems, but maybe I'll get inspired.
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The flashing red numbers told the story. Noon again, always and eternally noon. I hated those goddamn numbers, the repetition, the grim reminder of empty routine. Thralls to the cult of the running clock were whirring, no doubt, propelled on by their collective illness, the sick fascination with the progress of seconds, the slow drip of impending mortality.
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