melting into slo-mo
an inevitable slowing
weak in the knees and in the fists
all signs waiting patiently for you to spot them pointing and your esp is on the fritz
day 3
christen this city with the sound you grew up wanting jangle trauma in the light
bus stop junkies looking pretty as the morning
jungle hot after a rainy night
day 3
and by dawn we’re floating
flying
and by dawn we’re neurons firing
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