The Passenger
I'm strapping myself to the machine. The melancholy has settled itself between the reeds. Fireflies are lighting the way for the canoe. Half-hearted scratched parchment pieces float downstream as their pigment bleeds. The facts are fading, winding, and creating new realities. Memories are never as they seem. Fact is only what you believe.
The Swing Set
Childhood is made of rusted pipes and...
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