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...And then there were four

Outside: Hot. Dry. Some activity down the street is kicking up dust, and it howls down the street, down these canyons, a mini-gale in this unintentional windtunnel. It recalls Arizona.

I am: Recalling Arizona. Desolation. In those places too empty and barren to be beautiful in the way that desolation can be.

Inside: It echoes. This space is too large for what it contains. It wants voices and activity and heartbeats and the lust of commerce.

I am: Empty, and echoing, and too close to numb. I try to fill spaces with sustenance, but it ain't sitting none too good.

Do I have a gland that secretes novocaine?

Could I run a hundred miles and sweat out these toxins?
Could I get drunk enough to dilute them?
Could I fuck the pain away?

Still hot. Still echoing.

Still.

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