out of love Thom Arnold
Huddled over my computer in my room half-unpacked, I feel a disconnect in my shoulders as if a dumbbell lay squarely on my spine. I carry only worries, things tacked to the brow like social policy, starving children, and student loan payments, things nailed in, but never held. Though the fridge is the only noise I hear voices; incessantly musical, taunting, sad, and sometimes screaming. My head is a black hole and its gravitational pull is a cacophony while without my apartment the world sings through trees and wolverines and car horns. Consider the sunrise over the ocean and all its shattered mirrors; you begin to understand the world within: a space empty and full of everything save the disconnect in my shoulders connected only by her arms pressing the world without in
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