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Fall Crash
The world was chilly in the morning and the windshield fogged up like clouds floating above still water. I pressed the defrost button and the car responded to the twist of my key with a roar. I sped down the streets of suburbia and the twenty year old oaks' branches coated the sky with falling stillness. Left, right, and a few minutes later, left again. Cold, fall sky. Leaves like like laughing lilies. The colorful dead. Hair on the shiny tiles of the barber shop. Dead Skin. Rake it into piles and discard. Right. Light is red. Stop to the crashing of two cars they collide two lives intertwine and merge as the used vehicles like useless in the scandalous sun and the used bodies soulless on a paved fall street. Only the trunks remain trying to remember what it felt like to carry the burden of life and death.
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"Writing, I think, is not apart from living. Writing is a kind of double living. The writer experiences everything twice. Once in reality and once in the mirror which waits always before or behind."
The world was chilly in the morning and the windshield fogged up like clouds floating above still water. I pressed the defrost button and the car responded to the twist of my key with a roar. I sped down the streets of suburbia and the twenty year old oaks' branches coated the sky with falling stillness. Left, right, and a few minutes later, left again. Cold, fall sky. Leaves lie like laughing lilies. The colorful dead. Hair on the shiny tiles of the barber shop. Dead Skin. Rake it into piles and discard. Right. Light is red. Stop to the crashing of two cars they collide two lives intertwine and merge as the used vehicles lie useless in the scandalous sun and the used bodies soulless on a paved fall street. Only the trunks remain trying to remember what it felt like to carry the burden of life and death.