He’s up all night

again; pacing,

pausing. How

did i make this mess?

Leafing through

the holy texts

for the error,

for that one slip

in the formula

for certainty.

He’s drinking

again, muttering

the names of

the so-sure

prophets

he set up

to fail. By

dawn, he sleeps

face down

flat out on

the drawing

board.

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