quoth-eleanor
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monodies.


Notes

You’re a boat, passing through a sea of souls, each one glimpsed, not a one really touched nor felt at all.
The pavement below is pebbles on a riverbed. The figures there can be crushed between your thumbs; a bird for crumbs.
How can something so close still seem so far away?
You ask why the crowded room — third on the left, standard suite — feels so cold, so obsolete.
There’s no one there to say.


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