On two six June, some young lady with her hair swept under her cap, dressed a boyish fashion, suffered asthma on a hundred degrees. Hold the aircon, press the albuterol into the chest. Hold it now. Hold it in and take a snapshot of a room, box fan in window cuts through the night, ceiling fan casts shadow and cuts through the light. Some young lady, that was me.
I feel young and fine, but gravity has control and so I let it go and fixed to the earth am i, some young one but not so young as before, dreams as large as ever despite a social sphere leaves lots to be desired... still there are other spheres, online spheres, sleeping spheres, foamy latte bubbles bursting into the neurotranslation of my thoughts on ice.
Strange the night bathed in streetlight, kids shot out the bulbs but could not black the eye of the moon, half a pupil in the sky, waxing, and changing gears with a stick-shift turbo never gets old, crossing the trax is good for your health, kid. All the adults in the room but two, say their mother is their heroine. To me this makes the culture appear well-nourished then, but what about the dads? Has father's day long gone?
I bought Cross pens and sent them through the mail. My brother is a father and my dad is still my dad. Does anyone still write with pens? Of course we sign our names, they cannot take that away, can they? I sleep only one or three hours at a time, at the height of day, and a pillow suffices for someone to hold. Whatever you may call my life, today, is anything but desperate.
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