The Confession

In the silence of this housethere is a frequency humming, needle sharp. Piercing electric madness, it sings from


The refrigerator? The air conditioner? The morning stars of all the universes shining through these walls? This mole has tunneled somewhere past my brain every morning for three years-- these bone-dry mornings. There are days, I confess, I miss the dull thud of drunk veins throbbing

in my ears.


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