Most Days I Feel Like The Sole Survivor Of A Shipwreck, Rowing My Paddleboat Across A Sea Of People On Waves Made Of An Infinite Array Of Hands And Crests That Reveal Anonymous Faces. On A Good Day, The Clouds Part To Alight On-lo And Behold-an Island! I Step Ashore, Only Find That It Too Is Made Of People, Mangled Bodies Somehow Still Alive. They Grab At My Feet, Pulling Me Under Like Quicksand. The Last Thing I See Before Suffocating Is The Sky, A Billion Eyes Staring Down, Blinking In Undulating Electric Ripples. The Cold Rain I Feel On My Cheeks Is The Tears Of The People.
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Most Days I Feel Like The Sole
Richard M. Nixon
Most Days I Feel Like The Sole Survivor Of A Shipwreck, Rowing My Paddleboat Across A Sea Of People On Waves Made Of An Infinite Array Of Hands And Crests That Reveal Anonymous Faces. On A Good Day, The Clouds Part To Alight On-lo And Behold-an Island! I Step Ashore, Only Find That It Too Is Made Of People, Mangled Bodies Somehow Still Alive. They Grab At My Feet, Pulling Me Under Like Quicksand. The Last Thing I See Before Suffocating Is The Sky, A Billion Eyes Staring Down, Blinking In Undulating Electric Ripples. The Cold Rain I Feel On My Cheeks Is The Tears Of The People.
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