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why do you?

Why does one write?
Once your number comes up, you cease brainstorming the infinite answers to this unquestion.
“Hello!” I shout to the empty classroom.
I am aware of the perimeters of my intentions; I have my phone in my hand; I have my keys in my left front pocket of my corduroys, the laminent hanging out with the neckpiece – a ritualistic ornament which psychologically reassures myself that it is safe to go home.
It is safe to let go.
It is safe to go on now.
Except for… my glasses…Darn


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I left the office promptly at 11:45 am and it took the usual 3 minutes to get from my desk to the elevator to the front door and down the dozen stairs to the front green and I swiftly broke right up Maroon Hill two blocks west, slushing hurriedly up to the garden gates, and then made haste past the goat petting zoo.
Temporary images whirled past me as I lost more seconds of my hour and tore down to the Landing, the hillside slanted toward sea level and my spine started to burn as my speed increased, the spring humidity filling my lungs with heavy water and my terror elevated to a state of shocking horror for that which broke so many on…

“Allison Road” cover by Dos Locos