still searching for the new sound for so long that the trees we planted in the wild days have made it to the other side of the desert and at night we hear heavy fruit drop sonorous into still water but this is not enough there is still a hair unreachable in the throat in the morning we find the ruins of another city it must have been spectacular with those stones in the sky

one paper crane on top of a larger one the body’s thresholds

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for no reason a song spills out of me as I recycle this cold grey morning

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walking between autobiography and nonsense I stop on my walk to murder the sunset

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gulping my drink like a man just found in the desert why can’t I be more like George Clooney