The road gives way beneath me like chia, a small crunch, and then: disappointment. I cannot tell the difference between the buildings beside me, taking up the great expanse with only thought of great expense, and grass I remembered has become Kellogg pebbles. My feet move like my mouth over the modern wasteland. No thought. No certainty in speaking. I cannot stand up for something other, when my words have run themselves into watered down paint. They are a paintball in my chest, growing harder, like the sun grows dimmer, and progression becomes cut down trees. I watch, ignored, as the world reverts; spinning into the 1950s until seeds of hope dry in my throat, and my words are husks when I speak, the problem being turned into misinterpretations about how all life is beautiful ✱✱✱
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