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Click hereIn bed, some of my day's moments
become engrained, fixed images
that slowly grind their way down
the soft, stone steps. These pictures
are not conductive to sleep. They plague
my hours with doubt, regret, they ask
all those questions I daily try
to avoid most: did I really
take the right decisions; does
my discontent outdo my last
true reason, or could here be
some reason in it? On the dark,
cold ceiling the day's stills dance past,
we, I, all I'd expected
and my hopes' negatives turned
inside out in shop windows,
in parks, mirrors, laughter dreamt of
and stray looks. No earthly effort
will make them turn, and so climb
back up on those worn steps again.