Everything important happens while some other storm rages. Metaphor, mandible, and manubrium swathed in the field of some Nebraska fall. We think ourselves beneath these base concerns. We wonder and we sink and we nod our wink to wink understanding of what war might be. But, the fuse of this bomb isn’t so long. How we measure our lives by the sun, long-cable’s run, the always-dwindling soap in the shower. Every day, less. Hope isn’t something that grows without drowning first. The wide-empty sea of plan B. Like all creation myths, there’s water. How what saves you is just out of reach; what light left Lily of the Nile blue. What else is fucking new? What do we do when pinned to the precipice of another world? Jump? Spin? Rake these leaves and levers towards offense, paranoia, pressure. Fuselage fulcrum. Our portraiture a perpetual pink. Remember that day I died in front of you? How you said you keep losing me. How, every time, I wake up in another world.
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