They won’t let you have any fun and they won’t give me time to think

Closed is an option, to not let opinion impact on decisions and what you do and don’t do and might do and would try. But when you’re open, in an ongoing conversation between family, friends and people you meet in the street, it’s impossible, or seems, to strip back the layers of think, what they think, they all, and find that actual thought that you had about this.

Because they won’t give time to think. Time’s not on the table. What is is work and try and try hard and wait: wait until everything’s better. But what if there’s no better? What if this is it, and unless you change, step out the situation you’re in and a let a new thing happen, it’s a re-run and everyone’s sick?

I’m not going to write a book about it. I’ve been in the bin so long I don’t know what outside is. Relying on what I remember best. Scoopable. Memorable. Like in Dream Phone or Guess Who? Blue eyes? Is he wearing a vest?

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Surprise Centre

Your eyes on the third day.┬áThe thread count. Any guess. Cassette tape stretched from rewind. The clock, begging mum for extra. Cigarette breaks. The hip bone flutter. Tendency to say what I mean, mean it. Signal drop out. Age gap mishap. Sofa stitching. “What if,” temporary tattoo, and “Almost.”┬áTouch excuse. 16 hours a day. A stomach kick, brain bleed. No time enough. Your photo jumper. Profile, date stamp. Future. Hanging up last like life dependency. Clarity. An infinite restraint amount destroyed with simple follow.

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