There is a place to be alone. I haven't found it yet, but the city has a way of telling you these things. And it tells me and I know there is a place to be alone if only I could find it but who'll break away from a kind kind home? Even if you're striped and its spotted even if your bleak bars melt away and paint you a solid dull grey and you droop against the decor of their walls like a snowflake in May. They painted it for the sun and not for your grime. They're a mirror to your mire. Your white hot stinging wire. There's a place to be alone but before you find it you'll be whored because the city has a way of leering like its torn. Anonymity in the shining city as long as there's a singing in your ears. Let the battery die and you'll hear voices in your flesh and a writhing ride back home to a place of names and curled up spaces and an idle buzz of voices in your head.
Does it make you sad sometimes to read because who would you talk to otherwise and what would you say if you did?
I think I could tell you'll what I mean if I tried.


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Author: Kirtana K

I paint and make music and blog like a maniac. These days I try to run. But I have chicken legs and lungs the size of two-rupee balloons. I fail. I like pajamas and striped socks and books that read like song and songs that sound like poetry and strangers who read this page. And Maggi when I'm sick or cold or sad or celebrating. They'll find noodles in my veins if ever they cut me open. And potatoes. And maybe a tiny bit of whiskey. I'll be an Unidentified Living Object and they'll put my insides on display. It will be crazy. It will be awesome. It will.

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