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Tel Quel

je sais bien mai quand même

Tonight, unlike any other, is especially fleeting, and like my heart, is forcibly rejecting any form of nostalgia. When an utterance such as “matters of the heart” is made, it is inaccurate or false altogether. The heart is an organ, merely synedochic of the greater aura (grievances of sentimentality and yearning) but powerful, nonetheless. My dad, he cuts through highways with such wanton accuracy; Louis Armstrong and the full force of the winds in our faces. I can barely hear my thoughts in the thunderstorm of bright lights and hair.

In the wreckage of such seething unknowability, I have stopped looking and I have stopped resisting; very much wanting to dissolve into the night with equal fear and trembling as the last vestiges of St. Louis Blues begin to die away as well.


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