postcard to brighton
We should meet near the railroad tracks and compare breathing techniques we each employ in long days of stale, grey air. I want to follow you through tall grass, watch you photograph steeples of abandoned churches. And we can spend the night in a haunted house, assembling collages and listening to the radio announcer talk backwards. We can stare out the window at luminous orange smoke rising from the factory yards and wonder where the world went.
Wish you were near,