People some eggs in no baskets. A horn shouts. Dissonance in a growing ruckus. I see my foe. This taped fist splits his nose. It is behind my mask. With friends in a cloud of imaginary smog. Told we would be the future. With each new destination, another ghost is in the hard wiring. I won’t be paying attention to the rhythm tapping the word “help.” We mind our feet on uneven terrain. What wouldn’t I give? What is already lost. those eggs won’t crack themselves.
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