Fiddling with your ear too much, these days. Like your pinky is a q-tip, but not a well-working one. Buzzing that rings a day’s worth of sound. An amount enough to bring hearing a swan song lower —maybe— each week. Zooming in on that one time of life when everything mattered in a rugged, almost constructive, way. Way about the Geographic North, that’s an Even stand-still from now, beyond.
Night Cleaner makes me question how condoms work, romantically. Is it the sting of reality without one, or like a cement wall built one-side an inch too short. Another *shrug emoji* and familiarity from every angle. “Yeah, I know him. He randy, Randy: that’s Randy.” Also a decade too late, but now more than never. Reverb and skinny jeans. A generation of art. But who’s counting:
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