3000 feet of snow outside, aka a glacier, aka my right hand and a mug in it and in the mug, Swiss Miss.
Bi-textural sound-bite(s), and a green silence asleep on the rainstorm, as the toads clear the earth of its torn orbs, with all the pizza slices of our half-lives as large as Edgar Allen Poe.
Not to mention the horror of a slow, 40 BPM piano-ballad, moving at the pace of a Stephen King novel, armed with a knife too, and 80s porn fantasies, and candles lit in a weird room where a ghost lives, disturbing you despite the fact that it is a time of war, and chocolate rations are a must.
But in the hospital, can you, will you, are you, are you in a coma, or are you somewhere else?
In a flattened realm of tense maplessness I cross latitudes and longitudes to find you, in a river, thinking of another river, the river plunging inside of you, drop by drop from the feeding tube.
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