They cut my head off
without knowing
it grows back
in a new century. Thoughts follow me
a touch, though not down here:
I don’t know where I’m going.
Who needs a head? The body?
The victor? I would do better
without a head. I still don’t know where I’m going.
No goals. No books on goals or history—sorry.
The rest was unnecessary:
they cut my head off.
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