Days disappear under piles of uselessness. The New York City Summer carries on underneath your thumb, or perhaps the opposite is true, what disaster your ragged bones continue to be. I bike home late in the night, drunk but not happy, weary but not tired. The days continue, as they will, one after another, refusing to veer off course. Friendly faces pass by, trying to gauge the color of your eyes, check your pulse, carry on.
You attempt to do the same.
The illness lingers in your blood stream, hides in dark corners, converses with the demons.
You arrange your firewood, collect the kindling.
Wonder how much will burn in this next attempt to smoke it out.
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