I go to the post office. I mail books all over the USA and Canada. On the way home I walk slowly. Out front Église Saint-Zotique a couple of cops are hassling one of the bums who’s set up camp on the stairs. Across the street the park is full of well fed people in nice clothes spending money on little slivers of happiness to be shit out later. Ain’t society grand.
Head on a pillow and clothes on the floor I sweat and shiver, something is wrong. I want someone to call, to come save me, but the woman who used to won’t and the one that will is too far away. This is my future, drool going cold on the sheets, muscles stiffening. I pass out hoping I wake up. I need to make things right.
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