Sometimes I say things and it scares you off. And I can feel the line go dead with this buzz of feeling. It is anything other than silence. The harder I try to make a joke the quieter things get. There are echos in our neighborhood, sound waves bouncing off frozen ponds. For seven days I’ve been able to see my breath when I wake up. I have reoccurring dreams that I’ve killed someone, and it’s something I’m going to have to live with. Sometimes the bodies are buried beneath floor boards in kitchens I’ve never seen before. I went searching in books for answers. They told me it means I’ve been putting old habits to rest. It certainly doesn’t feel that way. It’s like I’m trying to reach you. The easiest way to build something is to examine the ways in which you can take it apart. How can you dismantle something so beautiful though?


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