Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Writing - Ruins

Ruins. Even before I decide if I am right, or wrong, I look inside. I have a junk shop in my mind, a recycling yard, derelict museum. All of the contents are second-hand and used, none of it is original. Everything is cobbled together. Am I angry over my collectables? Disturbed over my ephemera? Am I isolating over tattered refinements? Alone in the ruins.

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