Sitting uneasily on the remains of an old washer-dryer, I look up to the sky and toast the world. At my feet, dead yellow grass paws pathetically at my shoes. I light another cigarette and blow smoke into the day. It is nice to feel involved in some small way with this wider conscious, even if their habituality leaves me feeling isolated and pointless.
This old washer is hollow now; just four flimsy pieces of metal with the innards long since ripped out. To my immediate right, a pair of sneakers hang in the thin air of this syphilitic town. The Boy had finally reached his crescendo, despite our best efforts. Even now I didn’t dare look up at the floating, lifeless body looking down on me. Rarely did he gain the upper hand, but here we are – The Boy swinging from a tree and me left to explain…
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