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Frida, napping.
The frost is bare, only bones show here. There are no more angels, There are no more rabbits, no more seasons of magic. The Temple is doomed. This town, any town, any anywhere at all... we all smell like exhaust and exhaustion, restaurants, sadness and urine. Greed and hunger and thirst… You will need the plunger, unless you die the first. What was it before it was like it was then? Was it at all? Was it really at all? I wonder… It never is what it might have seemed that it was. There is no frost here. About what to do, when to do it, and how to do it correctly…? Don’t ask me, I never managed it… But maybe with aplomb, or a bomb, a bomb in a suitcase. It can even be a human suitcase; a bomb in your hat, your coat, your heart? Suitcases to pack, suitcases to decide and divide. Suitcases... do they really house suits? That would be a fine thing. Suitcases to keep track of at the airport; rolling thunder. The smell of suitcases open in a too clean hotel room that smells too clean. The frost is bare, only the bones show when the show must go on. We’re bare of frost, that coolness and empathy. Only the bones show in the too all of the time bright. Frost can’t live here. There is no air. (July 2016) |