Then come these visitors, who camp.

They remove their guest tag, settle in and use their microphone.

They sing to my music they can’t hear.

They dance to the ever moving walls.

They touch my soul pieces, and find the wrench.

They grip and turn.

They loosen the tightening in my soul, they fasten their soul presence by applying the warmest pressure.

There are chairs around my table now.

Their voices are in my head, no microphones needed.

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