think of the thin insanity that spreads out from certain sorts of men, with rough thick fingers and wild clothes. who sit down next to you in the park or on the train, so you can smell their musk breath, the rotted food, the cigarettes. who tell you the story of their life, talk until you want to believe in the broken past that they sell.

you think of that insanity and you think of spreading it out, thin, and paper sheets put into stack and stapled, narrative of another man, one crazy enough to leave his poetry out on the ground, like trash. you think of leaving that narrative and you think of leaving a number to a dead end, a phone with an answering machine, thanking you for your call, thanking you, thanking you, thanking you.

“let me tell you from the beginning that i already love you, i must tell you first that i love you, i love you, you called and i love you, i love you, i love you.”

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