Ride bikes and hold grudges in search of meandering truths. Wear flannel and corduroy and pretend like it's unimportant. But it is.
I am steeping in memories and aiming for every forsaken curb and avenue. I am wading in protoplasmic goop and all I know is that it really is over and, actually, it really wasn't that terrific.
To my horror, my life is prescribed by my own penumbral choices and everyone else's. Frankly that is too much for the listless and uncharismatic.
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