A river flows without a hope to be remembered,
it runs through the stones where words are scattered
and there’s something about memories that can make you a slave of broken things.
Someday somebody else will see this world and try to write the past as they think it should be…
someday some bushmen will find a note in the forest and they will connect that past with their own share of wilderness.
Association is a luxury and sharing a distant truth is continuation.
I am haunted by the stories of fulfillment,
days in days out,
as I go to buy more cigarettes I forget the ways to come back.
Why there’s home?
why there’s father?
Why there’s pulses?
why there’s the fear?
The dilemma of a failed dog.
The next time you walk through the summer grasses
remember the way back is lot harder than to learn and dissipate.

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Photograph: Andrei Liankevich.