My desk is covered in poetry
But I find no comfort in words
How I wish to shed my sweater
(It remains on even in the summer)
My loneliness is as long as an eagle’s journey,
But far from as valiant
And I don’t find any wormholes
I lay in my bedroom regurgitating what I know
With a hang-over
What happened last night and where am I now?
Sunday, August 10, 2008
with wings, i fly west.
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