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it feels like
january-feb-march with the denim and the humidity, december with the forthcoming, departures, on the horizon,     like people leaving again and solitude,   like silence and
the sky it feels like too familiar of a familiarity,      it feels like people leaving again,
echoes and turbulence   echoes and turbulence like   cavernous pits, it feels like old socks, like queen beds  not big enough, insinkerators and last week’s takeaway, uneaten, moldy nerada, potentially   dilmah, like ropes and scouting knots,  ligament straitjackets,
your roommate in the crossfire of 1700 kilometers
brunswick street burning and brookside extinguishers
it feels like do you love me anymore?s and nos, like sirenscountdowns
thetickingofaclock and it feels like stillness, ringing apathy, it feels like
people leaving again,                  like people leaving again

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