2006-02-23
poprecen
I hide behind in old clothing. Dust fuels my population reduction center. I leave my lungs for sale in a storefront window. Air is sold separately.
Coin-operated televisions in the bus station advertise the mythology of human affection. Stale wind in the stairwell thrills my cracked and bleeding lips. I carry dead moths in the shadow of my coat. Sunlight cracks the wall. There's no one on the street. The sky is big enough to kill me.
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