Retrospective in Spiralling

Field reports state otherwise on existence

Flies drop from the edge of the table onto the carpet. Rolling under feet, little bodies no more as the black buzz fuzzes out into slender nothings. From all three sides of the coin, faces fade away with blazing trains pulling away from the station. One by three and the count swims into the red zone. Of name checks and long gones. Away and into the blank, the void, the space between.

Soon Van - Monday, August 6, 2007 - 12:11

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