“dread”, i whisper; its smoky tendrons curling around my throat, ever so slyly tightening. 

lost in the infinite; my eyes are dizzy, a nauseous swirling of galactic blue and hazy purple. 

lost in the finite; mundane dirt fills my veins, clouds my sight. 

what can i say? who to turn to? speak, and you are roughly thrown from your country. your platform wholly eradicated— and this is merciful. 

speak again, and you are ill. not autonomous in your thoughts; requiring intensive propagandizing, indoctrinating.

the eerie stares, perennially present, watching out for every misstep. why must we revert back to history, the deathly pallor of the ussr? do they forget?                

my throat, my nimble fingers, my inner thoughts— purloined and looted. appealing to the masses, quivering in eternal fear of doubt and consequence. 

no longer are my creations my own. no; they slip from my soapy fingertips, into an unending chasm.  

i scream until my mind aches. 

but the chasm, so cavernous— the sounds are lost. disintegrate to nil. 

screams are nothing when they are not your own.

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