It’s raining.

I’m sitting at an old card table typing on someone else’s computer

I hear noises from the kitchen.

This is not my house.

Where am I?

But seriously, what has my life become.

Am I singing on the inside or crying on the outside.

Am I really happy or just convincing myself of a very clever lie.

Who really knows me? I’m not included on that list.

Turtles. They are covered in bacteria.

Wonderfully and wholesomely benign.

And yet majestically abrasive.

And totally random.

Pigeons.

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