The cracking of time is not helping me.
The nausea of time is following me.
My organs are not working the way they used to.
But they are hundreds around me waiting for him to come to me.
A man walks by in his black coat, he knows.
It is written all over the way he carries his phone.
I keep looking over my shoulder.
Fermenting anger in my views.
I am not filled whith what I think I should be.
I spend my last coin on cigs.
Here lost in middle USA waiting to arrive in CA.
There is still death here just like everywhere else.
Here it is just covered with redwoods and tide pools.
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