We are all of us connected by strands of chaos,
woven in to the all-sizes-fit-none
sweater boasting its ULife emblem,
faded to near-invisible extent;
the garment's seen more wash
cycles than an umbrella,
moth-gnawed mouths
freckling its girth, a good deal of
the material being long-unraveled
or unraveling,
stitches blooming wild
and unwinding
toward the oblivion of that obsolete—
by sliver of a single thread, each.
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