A week ends, a month end, you wash up on shore like a wet rag all wrung out, but also like you haven’t seen sunlight in months and now it’s beaming down on you: your tired soon dissipates. Take the bus out to a rainy Brooklyn, dig into a storage unit full of pieces revealing who you’ve been before. You wonder how much of this you could burn.
Wonder what a home is, if you were to truly define it.
He says he’ll pick you and your unearthed treasures up, take you all out to lunch, take you safely back to your midtown home, says it like it’s nothing, like it just makes sense and you think maybe it does.
On the car in front of the bus, a Christmas tree lies tied to the roof. You think, that’s alright then.
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