Last Words From Montmartre and A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night
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Life, now, feels like a telephone cord that is pulled and released and pulled, like hair that knots and loosens on the shower floor, like a hand that grips, relaxes, and grips again, like an infinite loop of contraction and release, of opening and expanding into possibilities that have no edges, before narrowing, limiting and then, hopefully, please, opening again. It was my birthday, duh, can’t you tell. I’m being reflective.
Last Words From Montmartre and A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night
Last Words From Montmartre and A Girl Walks…
Last Words From Montmartre and A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night
Life, now, feels like a telephone cord that is pulled and released and pulled, like hair that knots and loosens on the shower floor, like a hand that grips, relaxes, and grips again, like an infinite loop of contraction and release, of opening and expanding into possibilities that have no edges, before narrowing, limiting and then, hopefully, please, opening again. It was my birthday, duh, can’t you tell. I’m being reflective.