apres midi

ambition is its own sword, its own fall. a rejection seen in the steam upon the window, and the gentle sway of curtain in rising radiator heat. traffic moves, moves me, and i rise and breathe and eat and work, all for the chance to say, “i had my time and now it is gone.

it is brief, but better than none. i demand from myself a return to punctuality, consistency and that anaesthetizing dribble of prose that i sometimes call home.


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