It’s been a year since I started saying, hold on for, wait, a future is, wait, hold that lonely days will one day be the answer to someone else’s question, about what—
is unanswerable. When the nausea wears off and the fever breaks, something comes back into view. Some form, a body, music, maybe, and spins. It all spins. I feel it from my concrete balcony, behind my metal white pained fence, the eternal staircase from which I’ve imagined and imagined another me. A building happened. I still live here.
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