As if there's a score card.
Quick, how long have you been sober?
Quick, tell me to fuck off.
The details of my life have dwindled into a rusty barrel, brimming with the saliva of western movies' used chewing tobacco.
The color of gasoline in the sun.
A dragonfly's wings.
The smell of musty attic, fraught with the voice of ghosts.
That condensed exhaust smeared onto snow.
An after thought.
Tell me it matters.
That I can care.
Why is it we run from these thoughts even concurrent to having them?
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