This is not a post. This is just a feeling. A feeling falling out of a writers pocket.
The pockets though empty, feel heavy with uncalculated logic.
This is not a thought process its just a puff of smoke.
This is not a morning. It is just an existential joke.
I would rather be on a bus to somewhere cold.
Take my half inspired lungs
Paste them over the phone.
Watch the rain pour.
Wish for a life
Not spent at home.
I am a flame,
A white flower
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