Sometimes we just want people around us to be silent, sometimes we want them to buzz, sometimes the sun buzzes, the sun tonight is quite golden, the sidewalk against us is warm, and dry, like a fresh tortilla, like we desire so much to press our face against the radiant pavement, the most tender warm body in our lives.

Vacuous purposelessness, a ghost with lips, consistently pursed, red globe slivers rivulets oh molten lipstick low valley swollen, lowly fording only through itself, eating away the matter of adjacency, flowing as a red star, as a dying purpose for a cloud.

The odour of paper and tobacco smoke in wood, leather, dimpled brass nailheads, shade and cool musk of noon, the windows are not large enough, and the sun not fine enough here that particular light, peers in unescorted, single packets, the odours remain freshly married to dust, refrigerated intangible, a cool damp place.

Critical Response:

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