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A glass wall, almost.

Soundproofed, tinted from your side.

We share the spirit of your jasmine shrub, a feeble houseplant.

Intentional presence, neglected.

There is t h u n d e r striking my soul, elicited by your audacious remarks, ruinous conduct, surrendered humanity.

Every fibre of you, this house, haunted by your t h u n d e r, leaks it’s way into the holes left by what has been unlearnt, gladly forgotten…




s n a p.

I expect and am conditioned to this almost ethereal disappointment?

What the fuck?

This feeling of dread has always been easily erupted, and like forecasted rain, I expect short lived harmony.

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