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￭ Epistle of a millennial
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2015-01-03 | |
Too tired to sleep on in the morning, I wake up
afraid of my own dreams, when the garbage truck
arrives at my backdoor.Those men collecting everything
with gloves, their tanned and hardened skin.
They’re my stepbrothers because they feel the things
I felt yesterday, they’re the safe-keepers of my memory.
The scent of Christmas trees abandoned still alive.
The orange peels or other lifetime indulgences.
Too many cigarette stubs touched only twice:
once when I remembered something beautiful,
and another time when I tried to forget.
It is that something fighting in the corner of my mind,
yelling this is your life, just live it.
It is the sound of winter wind bending the trees.
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