spilt so much mint milk;
the carnations all sold for 99 cents,
our new church will never get built.
damn.
and no fancy preacher pants for the celebratory dance
and no celebratory dance.
god, how not to mope on?
god?

the truncated sound of a sentence, a paragraph, crumpled into three folds, an envelope. shipped across the world ninety times, a thousand. a service for meeting stories of woah. tattooed by careful typographed lithium to balance lonely hotel rooms, lobbies, and local libraries.
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