The Theorist

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The Theorist snugged the knot around his neck,
with most of the tie under his tattered vest.
There was a loud knock at the door
but it didn’t startle him, it was just deja-vu,
like minutes before; nights before.

There were crowds of strangers saying it wasn’t possible.
memories of words blurting out the hotel’s
ceiling fan on high, the window closed to everything,
he couldn’t remember if it was Winter, night or day,
or which impossibilities were changed.

The person on the other side of the door
spoke in multiple voices,
blurring the colors..
Burning his mind,
“Are you ready yet?”

“How expressive of you.” He jested, staring at the
thick cords at his feet, which lead to the machine
blinking lights and a drunk in the bathroom,
passed out from the movement,
or the aliens’ glare.

“Are you ready yet?”
“You’re worse than the devil.” He smugly replied,
lighting a cigarette. “Do you have intelligence?
Or are you just a fragment of something?
Have you come to kill us or worse?”

And the machine kicked on--
with feelings of wonder and desolation,
this dangerous game, in payout
with the next change to answer him.

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