The Pillbox Hat on the 2nd One
The night's moon is calling, a crucifix burned into the clouds below like a sign from heaven.
Or a bend of unknown particles.
I type feverishly the moment I arrive home from an autonomous drive and a brief stare at a haunting moonglow, no real goal, just an unknown need to write something down.
Lost in a wilderness of life where art has to be topical, and political and religious (or anti-religious). I type on. Maybe tonight I'll find the right balance of hate and fear. Or paranoia, to get through this draught.
Just another drive with Nixon ranting about football.
don't breathe too deep.
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