city of dust and webs
Grey afternoons and yellowed newspapers have made me ill. I dry-heave in the shadows of the wastewater treatment facility. I frame photographs of people I don't know, hang the pictures on a crooked wall, and pretend these people are my closest friends. I invent elaborate personal histories for them and name them after Russian cities. I drink isolation fluid while listening to radio talk shows. I like to imagine the talk show hosts are drinking, too.