Mom asks what is it about morning. Morning’s still transparent, just saying what I see is the hilltop through apartment history. Acting experimental on an evening walk animating the rich people’s nights in our storytelling, in their yards, you’re welcome. That lighting though. Frozen bottle of Smirnoff walking away as the ribbon on the night, crushed puzzle pieces on the ground. The seafood place a house now, finally. Pasadena. A sudden rise. A rich alternative. Cold hotlines. Why aren’t people laughing more about our sidestepping? I tried to cheers the Smirnoff girl, distantly, with my tea bottle full of wine. Whine. Screech. Ambulances still for everything I assume, house and car alarms like shit goes on. Imagine fire. All that’s left is next. Laying down in the middle of the sidewalk demonstrates length but also the obvious. Only position for the future.
Tipped workers huh. Shady, obvious. To do it with a well that wasn’t there before. Outside the pericopious. This private document. Turned off. Out like the bottle, out like us. At night, the fire and music coming from those porched out. What’s happening is nothing to say.
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