There must be something similar between rocks and associations,
the erosion, the patterns, the layers
the abrupt continuation.
The eyes, the back of the neck,
the yearning smell,
the looking for a long night of lost tunes,
the winter touches,
the cold beaches,
the smudges of a sleeping city.
The drugs in dens,
the darkness that stays close to skin,
the memory of something that demands no fucks of whiskey jamming.
Remember the poets are the product and the poems are the omnipresent producer,
we think we make but in reality we throw ourselves everyday to be made a little better.
I often think about a midnight station with railroads and distant horns
and I think I can see the magic that happens in smooth air,
the longing of rattles in the structure of a thick existence.
Paused rhythm and folklores of past,
togetherness is a foundation that builds and captures the passion and much madness.

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Photograph: Long Bach Nguyen.