then early morning arrived, and
perched on platforms of mist, like a
train that took too long since night.
for those that had spaces to fill did
manage to pass the hours, while
people like i tasted vacancy that left
a sour breath of unkempt care. what
was left to do: study Spanish, soak
lessons of postwar history and the
nuance of dominant subjugation, the
narratives of slave culture that most
engage with in their theses, and yet
eternity seems to cramp in the damp
servitude of utter oblivion, as sharp
liquor smells. the intoxication of soft
meaninglessness out-pours through
closed curtain shades, while channels
of the death-in-life sing a graveyard
melody in response to its own feeble
cries.