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November 4, 2015

Some friends have mooted the idea of my writing a book
One says i may as well milk the misery,
The other wants mention in the acknowledgement page.
I don’t have much to say though.

Each morning the door slams behind me and the gate clangs
The approach to the bus stop seems promising and full of hope
I think maybe sunlight falls happier there

In class my french professeur et anglais classmate trade racist remarks and insults offhand like they’ve been doing for centuaries.
I don’t know how exactly to spell centuries.

Two in the afternoon has become meaningful because that’s the time i think you wake up. I try to work out the heurs,
Midnight for me, 7a.m. when you sleep at yours, 1400hrs when you ostensibly wake. Of course, reality is often different- last night you only returned to your room at midnight, gave half an hour to me, woke at 1330 my time. We roll on. I could talk with you for hours. I like it when you’re chatty.

At nights i wander from kitchen to hall and each room, configuring which windows should be opened, and quand. I examine the leaves of my succulents; i turn off the lights.

I keep other images in my mind; blocks of concrete, for example.

There really isn’t much to tell about my days.
Aventure is unromantic.
I could do with you back beside me.

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