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Ode to concrete love

2006-01-07 - 1:25 a.m.

Copying a cache of CD's I hadn't found.

Minutes peel like old paint, flaking in autumn showers.

Listening to Windy and Carl's 'Drawing of Sound.'

I feel flat and amorphous. Connected to air and nothing else.

Hill returned my text but not the reply. Talking and requisite shit-giving for another space and time.

Every cliche about life seems startlingly true. And as the CD ends, I wonder about my journey tomorrow--and how much I'd rather stay with the lover I've found. In the streetlamps, the tenament houses, along streets I can't name at hours where all flesh is banished from sight. I am in genuine adoration for this city. It's the closest to in love that I have known. Those few precious moments, when the personality and mind dissolve under a sun of beauty, and everything is perfect...I had a few of those with my city.

Just a few precious notes left, and with them I close my eyes and embrace a delusion. So real. I smile, one only ever felt.

Ah unrequited ignomy, beneath the lamp of darkness sea.

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