of death and the monument.

the clock struck some wandering time zone. not a single hour or even one of those wasteful and meaningless minutes. it was just calm and then fielded. felt, left, folded, it was too cold to cry. taken from everywhere. one written book, buried along with fifty thousand imaginations. to pull it out and finish the last forty pages, slap a title, and pull the trigger. good bye utter and distinct world say hello to anew.  so safely cynical down a dusted and dirty road. find then and make it last all nite.

my morning commute exists in a pair of running shoes. the scent of the lavender picked this morning. stolen and moonlit, the hike, still honest i just aint got wings. all have scribbled down destinations, all have moaned at the grace found once forgotten, gimme two steps forward. call it tomorrow, call it and theres steps being made. its fucking known. corners being turned and pages swept under the rug, pressed on like kens worth. beating down the two laner, blistering under the heat. middle day, forecasted and swing just to sway.

unearthed some past. got lucky, babe. to write of death is the beginning of that aforementioned accommodation. fill in the blank, fill in the box. a life of mash. tyrants and their tyranny. breakdown, logged and on one.

asked and fled. honest as ill ever be. no one will ask and thats okay. you know? i know.

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