Thursday, April 21, 2016

in the woods of my first neighborhood, were hunted songbirds

I spend so much time pretending, convincing that insanity is power is insanity is power. It’s probably a lie, but I am not left with much else. ([Try not to think of killing myself.])

There was vent, in the house, I grew up in. Running an RC-car in reverse made it a radio, briefly.

Is that me? An accident of machinery? Functioning almost, most briefly?

What has happened to the turning wheels we heard?

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