They’re listening to the recordings again,
from way back when the sky was almost
purple. Taking their time making their way
to all the answers that they’ve heard before.
Friends caution them against reckless actions like the kind that breaks windows
in the streets. That isn’t something they can
afford to worry about while all the eagle
statues start to look more sinister in the new
light.
Turns out that absence bites with all
the viciousness of never leaving in the
first place. Broken airplanes fly erratically
around each other like drunks getting lost
in a dance.
We’re in our final chance at every single
moment, and the people who won’t meet
your eyes watch the flies as the entire thing
shrivels up and dies.
Teleporting Typewriter 