I was prolly laying upside down in a tree. With broken branches, in the fall. I was writing letters on paper with broken lines. There were only imaginary recipients. I recieved letters because I am a ghost. I was writing back. Time cannot deminish the potency of ink, which tastes like a drag off a cigarette your lover was smoking. You were raining
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today i found a watch battery.
love,
a frequent flyer.
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