baby, you do this for the full year you live there. You aren’t supposed to do this kind of looking. You have to do this kind of looking. This stirring in your chest wants to nest all that’s hard, and that makes you like people who come here thinking they are saviors. So you stand, smile. Buy nuts. You come back every day to stare as if they were a car wreck you, disappointingly, crane your neck to see. You come back. You smile. You wait. As if the looking could unhinge all the ghosts in your throat.
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