Rat, iron, taks

Box to box to box, and then here we are, going to empty them out. Ghost Town: Suburbia, admission one dime

So the flood: to the cities? A country like a constellation. Connect the dots to where the people are, with lights that shine from the teevee. Make a trade to smaller boxes. Stack em up line em up.

I think, though, I’d rather move to the mountains, where the tree-eaters were. I’ve always lived off the land: about eight centimeters off, the thickness of the carpet and the floor. Learn a trade, learn to fish. We could begin to name things again. You are That-Which-I-Am-Not. Chiefly.

When I think depression I think a thumbprint in clay. 

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