Old magnetic tape recorder hissing in silence, rolls of tape spindle onwards catching every sign and dewdrop tear. Into protective box case it goes after the last chord rings out. We all know the wave gets smaller and smaller. Cuts and splices on the mix. I do not know the first thing about self-preservation or mind-numbing tendencies. Shaking like a leaf in an earthquake one fall morning. Brisk winds blow, weeping at my feet. I feel the thunderous boom and crack of the Earth splitting up, divorcing itself, swallowing me whole, as I listen to the one true thing that understands my emotional duress. Playpen war where the borders of countries are made with Fischer Price baby-proof materials. There is a gate where we bang our hands and cry out because we cannot get through. Writers block. It’s not going anywhere. There is the resounding pitch of air horns, warning in case of air strike. Must be triggering up to a certain age. I want to see bakeries open before the sun, and smell the streets before they are polluted by cars. In the future that I cannot imagine, I will probably surprise even myself. But for now, it is just humdrum, not enoughs and living in yesterdays and checking my phone for literally any differentiation or change, however minimal, even if it’s just the time.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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