She wandered undifferentiated media,
qualitative verse, the subjective scansion
of biased journalism. The social network,
the television sounds, the ruins of meaning
strewn about the arena. I remember epics,
the tragic romance, the opening heavens
like an eye that sees all. She's separated
into segments, sections, divisions, rooms
like a house or a museum, measures like a song,
or bars like a rap. She wondered if meaning
was message or vice versa, if Derrida
was wrong or right. I can't tell any more
if I am in love, if this makes any sense,
or if these scattered verses serve a purpose.
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