78 words: Smokey

It’s a weird feeling to float outside of your body for a while. Every object is sharper to the touch – loud beats drumming on the skin. Were you always the clay figurine I imagine in my mind: bright and hollow, eternally stuck in mid-movement. I burned the five-dollar bill today. The smell of plastic and butane small reminders in the sky: the sadness in your songs, five am sunlight, the sound of soldiering air through a window crack.


I missed my post yesterday. A friend died. I didn’t even want to write this one today, to be honest. My head hurts. My heart hurts. I am grateful for the cold weather.


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