Classification ads run for diabetics messages to learn about or else feel guilty about. Resale presents for sale. Garage sale, selling a useless piano for a hundred. Dead cells are bit off, eaten. A caller leaving no message. No calls returned.
Present statues in bronze tarnish. Gold bends and breaks in two. Making, and moving in two directions, things must break. Home of a non-existing home. Noises that have no origins. Daytime versions carress fear. A stuffed nose and no belongings, sitting on a couch -- springs breaking through, to my back tendons that have failed. Faces on television, the curious question of normality as compared to me. Whispers in the closed drapes, I hide. Some faces I do not want to see.
A shake over at the closet. Some possibilities there. Se the collecting mortar building on my teeth. I recognize the signs of demise. Clothes raging on the cracking rack discourage me. Bruises bleed.
Salt on the floor that I wouldn't eat collects dust under my hanging clothes. A breathless room to make of it. A gas chamber in its own right. Alligators crawl there at night in the terror they release while the door is closed. Packed items were lost a long time ago. It
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