Friday, January 19, 2024


--IT’S A LONG WAY THERE

 

 

F   r   i   d   a   y,     #   6

 

 

The moon won’t stop staring. Like a serial killer with a bound and gagged victim. The air has never looked so much like an oil spill. Never tasted so fraudulent. Each wall hisses like a pissed off snake. There’s danger in ennui, homicide behind the door. At some point I’ll figure out why this day hates me, but for now, I’ll toss a coin in the well and wish for a different truth.

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