September 27th, Year of the Moon

Oh, baby, hush. Let the ball drop down. Just move in time, so that it does not crush your spine. It is Monday here, but Tuesday somewhere. It is the grey of Hong Kong’s smog-filled skies. As long as a dream can still descend safely, it is fine to rest your head.

All walls will soon feel a tomb. A pharaoh’s treasure only serves a thief well. You would have expected more out of a Summer evening, and for that, there is an uninterrupted longing. And your bed has become an icebox confessional. And your movement is robotic.

The marvelous disappearing act of the gentleman, in the new age. You watched the show, eager to learn something, with a slingshot in your back pocket, and Henry Miller’s wit resting on your tongue.

What things are shared between two strangers, meeting in that sore spot in the center of each other.

Stay. Stay out of desire, not exhaustion. Do not be afraid to embrace the embrace. Exist, so that I may speak with you. Finally.

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September 27th, Year of the Moon

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