The acid fog in the streets shifted a month ago. It hangs thick and heavy over the skeleton of a willow tree behind my house. I work feverishly into the evenings trying to find new solutions for old successes. The tired and tattered bandana mask doesn't keep out the cancer the way it used to. I refuse to evolve into new garments or techniques. And I suffer angry throes of rigidity in the muffled nights for my tenacity.
11:04 a.m. - 2016-12-19
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