I don’t have a clue where to go next:
A festival hunting eels in fish tanks
I shadowed you in your profession
I swear by now I’ve got about nine lives stopped and started
I saw your cyclist stance, pedal medal villainous eyebrows
I’d rather walk a block following lines of chalk on the ground
Hold on to the land; slip inside of the country fault
Journal confessional, granite on the sea salt asphalt
Kinda lost the fist
Finger popped the plastic
Go to court on a mattress, chat alone online
When the motor mutes
Or when the sea cements
Buckle down balloons in a darkened room
It took time to find
In conversation
I’m less like a meal
More like a condiment
Bloated denizens
Sleeping on the monuments
I’m saving wraps, double back
Taking snapshots of trash
Some things are frank
simple and sweet
I don’t need you
you don’t need me
Some things are frank
simple and sweet
I don’t need you;
you don’t need me
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