Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons
are spaced at intervals across the camp’s quad till daybreak. Someone props a fellow inmate up, another reels but the animal within clings to life, stays upright. The hours creep, a changing of the guard takes place (their hut heated, with vodka, sausage, and accordions, for nothing shines with quite that radiance as the joy and warmth of someone else’s status). Odd: what the loyal notebook would omit the internet retains, so we claw from the detritus, and the smoke sticky with fat disappears over the forests’ coarse fur. On leaky screens we lead safe lives. Lethe has washed clean what it must—how long can the ovens stay unmanned? Facebook: What’s on your mind? Write: you hang there,
all blue, cooling in those gray and white bands.
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