--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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