why do you?



Why does one write?
Once your number comes up, you cease brainstorming the infinite answers to this unquestion.
“Hello!” I shout to the empty classroom.
I am aware of the perimeters of my intentions; I have my phone in my hand; I have my keys in my left front pocket of my corduroys, the laminent hanging out with the neckpiece – a ritualistic ornament which psychologically reassures myself that it is safe to go home.
It is safe to let go.
It is safe to go on now.
Except for… my glasses…Darn

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