The Southwestern night speaks to you again, in whispers still, because you are new to the ground and skittish around its words. Let's take it one star at a time, you think, but you do not mean it, you already feel several constellations behind. You look for armchairs on Craigslist, because the ascetics of a folding chair do nothing for your literary ambitions.
When he says, it's always been you, but doesn't appear on your doorstep to mean it, you think only how you grew up with the lesson not to count your money until it is in your bank account. Too many old wounds of disappointing men trickle through the ether, you have run out of bandaids, you will not risk the gash tearing open again.
Take a cold shower in the trailers dirty bathroom. Write mental lists of the grime you will clean out of your auras tomorrow. The cockroaches gather in the sinks. All you have to do is let them out.
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