the girl who said fuck frequently walked on a cobblestoned road embraced by trees. the last of few.
the man who had just been given a seven minute long motivational speech of the Most Outstanding Quality blinked. the Speech Giver, a presumably wise, interesting-smelling old man on the skywalk by the station, had disappeared.
a jib crane and eventual death the caving metal roof, last century’s rust
she sat in the rickety purple train with nothing but a yellowing photograph, a bar of chocolate, and a dream.
I don’t wear a watch, I find a watch, spy on everybody, scan every wrist. Who has the time? I do, stolen, sneakily obtained by immoral means, by bending and turning my head and casually stretching to feign interest in strange black birds whispering outside the windows of monotonous chemistry classes. (when does this end?)
I will be here, my love
There’s no part 1, but if you imagine there was, it makes the entropy easier to accept.