Blind man.

You claim to see so many things. You do, you do, and you're not entirely wrong. That's why you can take a piece of paper and rip it up and then neatly stitch it back together with clean bold figures printed on them without ever having put pen on paper, that's why you can talk endlessly about subjects that other people don't even consider, in your clean and clear, slightly posh but not too posh accent. That's why you can pick up tears and roll them lightly down your finger, twisting your hand this way and that to keep them on course. That's why you can tear and rip and hurt and still have people nestling against you for warmth. That's why you can drive through a black tunnel and your headlights don't blind.

But if you can see so well, how can you miss the pounding, the heaving, the flashing, the topsy turvy on a boat in the middle of a storm, the light that continues to spin spin spin mindlessly, a firefly trapped in a glass jar, desperately hurling itself against its invisible prison, towards an inviting darkness that whispers promises.

No, you can't see.

Or are you wise enough to see and not say anything? If you are, then we all give you less credit than you deserve. 

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