albion road

seafarers:  The Sierra III by Luc Busquin

The pale face of boredom or raised voices, scratching insides. I see no one for days, but the lamps are always lit out there, sensing ghosts in the hallway. A smell of burnt paper, but the windows are dead dark eyes from outside. They have disappeared into the walls, mumbling to themselves at night and passing cigarettes back and forth and I can almost hear my thoughts through the conversations because they are so shining bright and clear like a flashlight that blacks out shadows and greys. a big yellow moon and nothing around.


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