25/30

iii.

i know you. i know with you. i know i am here and we are something else. i know i seek i dream i want everything here i want this and i am nothing. The green is speaking and laughing at us in the chuckling shackles of a tent and it is august and that it is false. August has walked into this world and borne us both into rusted versions of ourselves– there is heat, there is dust and I am headed east. East is the moving target that consumes the eyes, East with the birds and East with the sky. The mangled faces are hard bitten and eight months has exhumed three dead bodies, carried two out of the graves, carried one back home and one into the sunsets. I have walked for so, so many miles and will not sleep yet. There are years between you and I know, where before there were just inches. The years unfold in planes and grass and sea and I do not know how they land but I hope they fall into pieces. The pilgrimage is suffering, is literal, is crucial, is everything and we must find ourselves first. I know that, and I hate this, I hate it deep and into the guts of broken animals long passed from the whispers of their bones.

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