Is it intelligence that breaks routine? Or is it the
carefully constructed anticipatory rebellion which welds inside
and cracks the chrysalis then

asks us to play electronic beats and dance like the ocean?
I never can tell with these things; all I feel is that
on one hand
routine is the knife by which I slit my arms and act surprised at the blood
and on the other
it is the warmth of a snug cookie dipped in milk on a summer afternoon.

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