Line
Not drunk, he walked between the spaces, spaces where the faded yellow line would stutter, change its mind, begin its job of separating bad from good, from here and there. No cop could stop the fault he felt was his, a fault, a quake that waved the faded yellow line, he thought it drunk the way it wavered down the road that stopped at nowhere good, that faded yellow into good intentions gone the wrong side of the empty road.
Real
Nothing is real. What he really sees is nothing but happenstance. Reality
is a tourniquet wrapped around a pile of empty coffee pots. Reality is a tourniquet wrapped around a bag of frozen peas. Frozen peas don’t stop the pain. Any pain is better than staring at nothing. Any pain is better than wrapping happenstance into a coffee pot and stuffing it into a frozen bag of peas.
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