Somewhere in the interstitial space,
in the crevices between the tiniest matter unseen,
there is a thin dark substance,
as elusive as waves on the water,
as unsettling as a gust of hot wind at the height of noon on a summer day.
It tries to seep into the clean with amoeba-like fingers,
an evil smell whose source you can’t identify
and which bounces about its containment,
frustrated and ugly,
the stench from the armpits of hatred.
I’m watching it with curiosity and detachment,
seems like from very far away,
seems like from another world where it no longer exists,
the worthless artifact of an obsolete struggle.
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