Pejorism
The world spins - which is obvious
In the blackness of space it tilts itself like Don Quixote
Caring little for what spreads across its surface
That tilt - everything flows off the face into the ocean of orbit
The world shakes itself dry
The world looks into the sun until it dehydrates
Silence fans out from the center
History chains the thing to its horse - drags it from the view
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