foxy

Day 20: Morning Tea

I sat all through the isolated night of another numbered day and waited for the quarantined morning to rise out over the sickly and fearful City of Wayne.  I waited with smoke-filled eyes, blinking hot and red, not from an underlying undiagnosed infection, but from self-imposed sleepless anticipation and lingering artistic nervousness.  I waited with …

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House of Bullshit

House. Land. Property. Ownership. The ubiquitous american dream. Hunter went all the way to Las Vegas to find it, up on that little hill, with the right kind of eyes. My parents’ generation fought first to fuck it all up, then later to passively-aggressively nurse it all back to health. My generation lost it, though we had precious little claim on it from the beginning.

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