Dawn, and the plum blossoms beaten to earth by last night’s rain lie scattered and soaked on the concrete. A newspaper left on a folding chair’s slick lemon seat appears to have fused together. Inconsequential images? I wonder. Maybe secrets I should carry through the long press of traffictucked like snuff between lip and gum for the slow, bitter pleasure, the minor addiction that helps me stay sober and honest, that helps keep me sane.
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