Extended
In the middle of the night, in a dark house somewhere, without windows, covered in thick, grey vines, I call out but can’t hear my own voice. Is there anybody there. Is there anybody there. I know I’m saying this, from years of calling-out experience, but all of a sudden I’m unsure. I could have just as easily been saying is the rainy bud either or is the rent I bought in air. I continue to holler, hearing nothing of what I’m saying, and the more I consider these other options, the less surprising it is that nobody answers. And I wonder whether I’m hopelessly lost when I cry I stare in the butter, the hair.
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