At home

The windowless room: an afterthought. And the light it came, when it came, in shards. Slow like the white dust (the dead) it settled over the green ceramic tiles ending just above the kitchen sink. One street from the station, if you stretched your head from the balcony, you could see the lines. Ideal. Two types of terminus: station and cemetery (but at night the one it glowed up from out of its heart, over the walls, aglow). Now and again, voices through the drainpipe above the toilet that finished outside the window. Often, in the mornings, the body’s sounds through each wall.

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