stapled to a telephone pole in the alleyway

Me — 7:30 PM isn't it wild how we just like You — 7:30 PM ? Me — 7:30 PM grow from the people we've spent time around in the way that like I mean we adopt their mannerisms we talk more like them we use words they use we style a little different   we shift our lifestyles a little                here and there or maybe a whole lot in a way it seems our hearts are simply museums of everyone we've ever loved that scares me a little the idea of being a patch-work colossus of love long gone like the smell of a cigarette out a windowsill lingering in my heart and my own memory and impression lingering in the hearts of others in that I suppose the fright is that I'm not made up of aspects that are entirely me but at the same time that fright is juxtaposed by the prospect of the kind of metamorphosis that is growing that is knowing that is loving that's all You — 7:34 PM i think you see it wrong at least i...

      I miss looking at the stars like I could at the Farm. I think it was the connection that I sought by gazing, as opposed to the beauty of the star that it emitted -- and in that, I suppose, I miss rather that I could see the stars in the first place. I miss being so allowed by circumstance to free myself into the sky, and dream awake with the stars and comets. I could have sworn you could see the sharp purple space dust that makes up the faded lilac color of the milky way galaxy dotting a ring around the vertical horizon. As impossible as the stars are to see from the townhouse in the Industrial district, I can see them nonetheless in the light refracted by the rippled lenses that hug my irises; the street lamps and distant invasive flood lights fold and spring outwards in the same ways that the stars do and did. They allow me to fly not. I am a bird in its cage, sitting in my room with the blind partway drawn, peering through the glass and cold.   ...