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Aloft In Urban Americana

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Aloft In Urban Americana

i wish i lived alone in a loft, in driftwood chic and a salvaged, red brick sea. bathroom tiles scatter to find proof a few get lost straggling, coolly concentrate and hold sway over a corner by the door to the roof. the door is really a wishing well where i go down i really don’t care the door is really the entire wall, and the wall i see isn’t even there. i want to hold a nonsense conversation with a faceless neighbour, share a bonjour, and break some bread with a bon voyage - it’s all in my head. static ocean liners blink by my roof over the street mist, as fellow behemoths they bop in ambient choreography, their feet don’t exist. it’s a coronation and i am an emperor, a banker quick blank blink, and i stop, tugged to a halt by the anchor in the salt, and i sink.
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