Washing away the weekend. Soaking in a bath. Warm and relaxed. Reading, and trying to think through a mental fog. Meaning landing flatly. Rounding the globe’s slippery horizon. Wheels snapping down, rubber wheels find a stone ground as desolate colossal feelings radiate through the windows. Completely out of sync with the unnatural marble of our collective expressions.

Planned hopscotch foils us. The many bent and sick. Minds and hearts, respectively. Wrong door, dickhead.

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