Because breathing in second hand smoke and the smell of weather turning is like looking through another pair of eyes.
(watching —- has never felt better, things —- have never felt better.)
The storm in the sky grows as days melt through my fingers, and summer is flooding. Stand back far enough and every face looks the same; leave long enough and the pavements of every city is the same sultry brand of cold.
I count the number of train stations home. Now is in transition.

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