A ruled line, an enjoyed baseball card deco, belongs to a pillow fortress
as if to say–having carried out a clear cut of a triangular sandwich
with my wedge–that life was scathing. I will feel it as an adult too deeply,
attached to it like a button that’s late and we will eat mashed potatos
in the room where the bad smell of an old book is and and we will doze off
tomorrow. I sit down on a peanut butter punctuation mark cleansed with some salt.
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