Creeping tendrils, fungal cordyceps, grabbing hamstrings by the bone,
Stunting pain in muscled biceps, stretch as if they work alone.
No matter far nor long I run, no matter time, not record,
Confidence degenerates in ton, and waste is felt in effort.
Mind is but contained—by signal—swiveled text from cornered row.
Watching bounces—screens—too seen, in later times I shouldn’t...
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