infantile

The day picket fences breathed erratically and gas fireplaces reflected the nature of broken oceans, I was born in a room achingly looking for a corner. Youngsters unknown to the school staff ran through the walls, the fingers broken like oceans. Seafarers said nothing but the air was too cheap to bother selling it so it was free, and the sunlight described it anew every moment. The last time my parents saw a huge mammal it was a monument to a famous firefighter. There were digits all over its body, but they didn’t constitute a number.

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