We stopped fighting. The day sits still on a rocking chair that’s wooden thighs rub the carpet. Still – the day sits. Pocketed: the hands of time, turn and cross like the day’s legs which adjust and shift. You unpack your baggage. Iron out insecurities from button-downs, fold your denim – failure can be so casual. The day leans back, cradles time in his hand. Time...
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