Bent over, in a quiet tumble, telling stories of old neighborhoods and mouldy cheese with wine last Saturday night.
No one makes it through these windy streets, not like they used to anyway.
Stop, inhale, the air is thick like your monogrammed towels. I wash myself with them, terrorizing sleep and blemishing a melon dew face.
Go rest, ignore time for as long as you can (forever?) and I will tell you,
no one will come running to stop the clock.
Did you even pay them for it?
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