The hours close in, the place sleep adjacent, the incense smoke a silken smudge upon the dust and grime. False constellations cling to the ceiling. Every shadow takes its place.
All the clamor of the weather and the clock, branches beating down. Less a life than a history of breathing. Less a living but the ritual of the every day.
Go ahead and lock the doors. Go ahead and leave a light. The words weren’t meant to be enough, and there was never room for anything else.
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