He just can't give it up.
it's like being tiny iron filings
coming too close to an industrial magnet.
He obsesses with the flea powder;
it helps to overcome the numbness.
He won't work without it.
The block is too hard to climb over
unless his mind is doped.
Bombed he writes moving prose,
vignettes,
vignettes about the social interaction
of his furniture,
about the journey of a small particle of dust
as it floats in the sunlight.
If he were to focus on a single spot on the wall;
I'm sure it would melt and morph
into the most beautiful mural.
It's always like this.
[21:54|15.12.011] ©c.thomas.carter
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