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tunnel blindness

I plant my skull in a thin patch of air. Here comes and goes white noise in a thin patch of air. I retreat to a furnished oil rig in the Pacific sunset. Smell of carwash at dusk. Old, haunted houses in Central Valley dust. A yearbook of killers. I prefer space and time. That old heart-sucking feel of laundromats and ice cream stores in Sunday nights. Black & white photos of underwear models in 1970's half-light. I jerk off and fall asleep, her legs all smoke dreams around me. If I can't find a painless way out of this life, I'll dig myself further to sleep.

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