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Children cry more often around it. But there are no children. That was one solution. Now the freezer sweats, and when I put the DVD player on pause, the figures jig with nervous ticks. All the glitters involves my Gold Card, so I want to be careful, check Consumer Reports. The delays, the gall of people--I'm not sure I have the liver for it. The places in National Geographic, that's what I want, more sun, less closet clutter, a bare breast now and then. And if I just knock off and have three beers? The more I think, the more I have to pee. Which can't I face, window-jarring stereos or beaches with no footprints by mine? Whichever, sign here, the middle copy is mine, and I'm supposed to have a nice day.
A red suck draws into a wall. The deeper I look, the more it comes out at me. Not the steady stop, but the instant can I make it? Even sitting in a red chair, I breathe faster. When I close my eyes, I have to outlast the crimson beneath before it's rest.
I have to go after it. The crying has mostly stopped and any direction I walk is toward the azure distance. Nine hours later, any direction I walk is toward the azure distance. I'm all right: my blood pressure has eased. Where the water is deepest cobalt, I cup my hands. Nothing. I read my palms so long they numb. The moon sets and I light a candle. Blue flame. Ghost. I'm not frightened. I'm sure I'm the only one here.
Color Mark Cunningham BADD.