The fog rolls in through my window. I want to go outside and
be in it but the front door is padlocked and the keys are in another room where
someone is still sleeping.
I packed my bag mostly and put on the jacket I had
made that really I can only even wear in this city because everywhere else in
the country is too hot and got out money for breakfast but I’ll have to wait.
So instead of reflecting on the sky and the mud I will imagine what is good for
breakfast (warm bread and nescafe) and write about the baby that died and
listen to the motorcycles and people and chickens waking up around me. And the
fog drifts in through my window.
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