And what is there really but fear and little breaks in the fear now and again.
In your mouth, the cold wet suburban streets calling for no one.
You trace the quiet desperation that rings itself around your week-old coffee mug and cherish the meek sadness of the rain which has gone on for decades underneath your skin.
You try to write but all the photographs are full of messages you cannot keep from weighing down your mind.
Time is always someone else’s.
Every person has a camera and each image is a waste because they are the same and never stop. The people, their hurt-filled eyes, the ignorance of their blackened words in constant.
A soft being dressed in white dances before the sun, they are setting into the sickness of green seaside.
I suppose I am afraid for all the reasons anyone would be afraid.
The deafness of…
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