I am an apartment full of doorbells and invisible unemployed joggers. Someday, all our milk supplies and front lawns will move to Missouri and we will have to replace them with new interracial couples. A few months ago, I saw a heartache waiting for a bus. It told me to use my own brain. For the last three hours I have been using other brains. I feel like a ditch that has been asked to dig its own grave. Or like a mayonnaise bottle filled with mushroom juice that mails his finger clippings to a professional couple that still believes in logic. 

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