Nomadic letters lost in thought,
detecting its whereabouts is unknown,
maybe hidden in the womb of creative landscape,
I'm desperately lost finding its sense.
I suspect they run away cold from me,
leaving me read-only memory,
I was ripped with knowing,
waiting with nothing to expect.
How I might feel my words without it,
nor I will convey my faithful singularity,
when not an even one of it is in place,
what then shall I know I construct my completeness!
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