Thursday 12/17/2009 12:36:00 AM

The compass was accurate. We were still facing north. Searching the sky for places the sun seldom visits. The compass was accurate. We were lost. In all directions. Somewhere else we'd never been.

The mortar setting on bricks just placed. The straw heavy with culpability. The wheeze of her skin. As she stumbles upon proper moments. Her resilient lungs breathing hotly into my chest. As I cross off the day on the calendar. Searching for the one where I began. Waiting for the end.

Humble dollhouses patent the obvious form. pasted breasts and longing lips feed the diarrhea in this foul house. I can smell the shit. The faineant passions of obtuse men. As they work so hard to obtain all the things they will never possess.

I make a notch in the chain on my time machine. As I consider the years that have come between us.

There is life to be found in these dead things we play with.

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