Like a cloud, his fingers explode. On the typewriter ribbon, a shadow grows. His heart’s in a bowl behind the bank. And every evening, when he gets home to cook his dinner and eat it alone, his black shirt cries while his shoes get cold.

One summer, a suicide. Another autumn, a traveler’s guide. He hits snooze twice and then he dies.

He feels lucky to have you here. In his kitchen, in your chair. Sometimes he forgets that you’re even there.

It’s just a dream he keeps having. And it doesn’t seem to mean anything.

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