It's
just too far north. And the funny talk? The exasperated voices? And
the snow? You've got it on your brain. Yes, right there. No, to the
left. There! Yes, through your skull! Too much snow. It's whiting
everything out, like your whole life was mistakes. Even if it was.
Chairs are more relatable than people. Safer to cover with the mass
of your body. No, sweet rolls are not food. They look so good,
through the cellophane or shop window. From this impossible distance.
They smell like the cum of otherworldly angels. Taste so good they
make you close your eyes. Close your eyes for a few seconds that feel
so good, so deeply personal and satisfying, they allow you, if only
for a moment—the length of a chat flirt—to believe that you might
have closed your eyes forever. The internet is redefining that word.
Making "forever" into just another cinnamon bun. Icing
melting to reveal a carelessly thrown together product. Dough,
invariably, just dough. Too much whiteness. Too much snow. On the
brain. And the silly voices? The cartoon running? It's heartbreaking.
Like ice breaking, into sheets, the screams and squeals they make.
Just being, just coming into being. They're only sweet for a minute.
From this impossible distance. They're not food.
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