this is not poetry, but it still sucks

If this blank page were some naturally ocurring thing, I would maybe feel slightly more guilty about defacing it. In all likelihood,however, it is painfully improbable that anything in nature would do anything aside from reject the absorption of the ink flowing from the pen that is rigidly connected to the hand which is making these passionless gestures that are controlled by some part of my brain that is not the same as the part begging me to go to sleep, butis undeniably being influenced by it. This isnt that depressing, though, because the outside world is lovely the way it is. Contrarily, this paper is not becoming any more lovely. Slightly less boring, maybe, but that could even be an arguable stretch of the imagination. The point is, neither of us feel anything, so we should maybe keep pretending until we both believe it and call it lovr. The point is, this page has nothing to do with nature. Lets pretend.

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Love, not lovr

Love, not lovr