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2014-07-14
isolation station


My ghost scouts strange neighborhoods for a place in which the body can rest. I search for Pinter books in the grey lawns of a dying Sunday afternoon. The air tastes like aluminum. Everyone I ever loved died quietly in the static of telephone lines. I search my hand for a hole in which my life can escape. The sky photographed all the faces that fell from my life. Stay here by the water long enough. Another body will fall from the Bridge.


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