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Decision 1820

by: Neal Kitterlin

Each of the avenues I walk down rebuilds a foundational future of headdress consortiums on the run from some brand of heartache. I want to feel how their beats touch mine in strange boxed-in tributaries, but I can’t stop looking at corsets and facial hair. Here is the room where sleep was hard-won, built brick by brick a status quo of deferred dream feathers to fluff aristocratic holography in comfortable chairs that give massages on command. Staircases constructed step by step to nowhere.