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Thursday 10 May 2012

Howie Good-


I took a long, slow drive
out into the country
just to watch the leaves die.


It was late at night inside me. The nurse on duty believed in the therapeutic properties of art. Bullet-riddled bodies stood around my bed making small talk. Ethics was discussed back then, when it was discussed at all, as what you shouldn’t do rather than what you should. A bird might just as well have been pecking out my conscience. At the edge of my vision was a clock without hands. No one I met considered it hypocrisy to dream in fragments, but bleed in full sentences.

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