I scream while eating ice cream:
what is the world
and all its fallacies?

what is the world?
I ask myself
to no avail.
do these objects in motion
serve a purpose
other than to themselves?

do these bodies
seek certainty
in all they touch
with their hands?

                my spoon shakes
                at what I feel––
                is it fake?
                is it real?

what is the world?
everything around?
or each head
hearing its own sound?

I leave my table clean,
grab my jacket,
grab my hat,
leave my seat
and fall into envy
for all the people
with eyes lean.

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