Tonight, the clouds move like a translucent priest who whispers confusingly, like the blurry rape of a strong man by a ghost that feels the middle of a significantly bad memory not quite in focus, and not worth the spit from a tumbling chipmunk shit un-funny, how the raindrops can’t up there either, I mean to say that the clouds give no warning, well, some, but the maple leaves blow along Winter Street like legless ankles gone insane, shocked at how, marginally happy, they can still cross things, water or air. No matter mice flap their wings on the alley floor, stupid, brushing the dust off the glass in their ever-tinking skulls a little there, a little self indulgent, this grayness that makes it’s way down to town, and through the town around the bleeding headlights that are too much for my heavy feet, which I know I must cross to no end.

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