April 28, 2009

Down deep, there is something so strange, something so devoured, something so rotten that, on certain days, when the wind comes from a certain direction, I can smell it. I hope the others don’t notice, but rather that they continue their polite interaction, their polite embraces, their polite clinging to society and its proscriptions.

One comment

  1. Every single thing seems to fit into little supermarket carrier bags, most of my things fit into ziplocs.

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