left on duboce

a little bit later and i woke up to throwing a coat just a few minutes after eyes crept open. i was awake and writing but the smell took on a familiar scent, tunes on blast. it wasn't found or from, it was a gifted memory, the reminder. Back Roads again. fitting as always, hands pulled thru hooded sleeves, another chance at one million similar boats, still and unlatched to docks and stirring. the light now flicked on behind a capsuled overlook, I'm standing in my very own doorway, wooded and painted fifty times white. this old jacket never felt like this, it never pretended to know. this old jacket never worked like this. wrist bleeding a crescent moon. a short soft sliver settling upon the coldest coast. i saw and said through a pointed look, its still high and western. again with the crashing colorful wonder, and the buzz of being. i kept an eye on the machine with a name and that little dance for bad service. I'm writing about writing. I'm about forty percent battery life. driv drive droven, made up worlds, spinning with no gravity and flunged. think square, think. you'll never get it. done what one was supposed to do and a handed out thanks. so stirred.

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