there was something about that bus ride. blood running through the transmission and leather seats breathing like lungs. a general sense that novocaine was being run through the vents.
back on the fifth floor. suitcases hit the tile. records scratch and echos bounce off walls. ghost coffee is served in broken tea cups and calls returned on the telephone whose wire was cut three days ago.
all the while clouds hang just below the ceiling. filling up with dreams sad enough to make them rain.
a week later, a window is left open and the clouds ran away with your dreams. and also some of the better china.
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