the week spins on it's axis. I check and recheck bags. securing memories, locked in paper, sealed with ink. all that i am contained in folds of cardboard. some so small they could be scraps.
i savour the last of the morning. the new day is about to begin
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Friday, March 4, 2011
shift
it even smells different.
the temperature dips as the horizon is swallowed by sprawls of grey. the town seems gentler; man mimicking meteorology. mimicking the sky.
my lists truncated. the slow swelling of cycles. looping up and over and down again.
a small piece of pie is enough to sustain me.
the temperature dips as the horizon is swallowed by sprawls of grey. the town seems gentler; man mimicking meteorology. mimicking the sky.
my lists truncated. the slow swelling of cycles. looping up and over and down again.
a small piece of pie is enough to sustain me.
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