“It’s the first word in the Unabridged Tom Dictionary. The second word can be unabridged because I have no idea what that means.”
Tonight the wind etched a new face over my skull and sculpted new weariness from old joy. We are sculptures. We are gaunt and pale. We are violence. We are cracking under the morning sun; dissolving in fingers of pink light. Our bodies forget the imposed structure of bones. Our muscles are memory.
I think I’ve just discovered that I hate the word “new”.
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