TE20 Migrant Mosaics

Songs for 3:45 am

In Place of a Song, Part I

The season is over, it was a nice spring, every one of its days is done, all that remains is forgetting, it can live on happily without me, behind some wall. It’s light outside, I open the window I didn’t clean for the holidays. Everything’s a mess, I can’t find anything, not even my lighter. It was a nice spring, but otherwise nothing happened, and I don’t want to talk about it. Perhaps lie something interesting and bearable. That that really was a holiday , who cares about dates? Or something like that. To talk about the body, so that someone listening can feel embarrassed. And about the soul, so they’ll be impressed. My mind is a mess, full of objects in place of dreams, like the nights. Like my room. There was a body, and what came with it. It wasn’t the time of my life, or I hope not. Who cares. I write down holiday , I can’t place it anywhere. The sun shines, I’m sitting. They’ve been tearing down a wall at one of the neighbor’s for weeks. You should wash your face. And mine. I have nothing to do with our story. Like how the Sea Salt on my table has nothing to do with the color blue.

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