Against Seven Oaks

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1. The brakes of a bus. The furnace waking. Any soft sounds
were your words — the way you whispered over the phone. A city becoming mine and part of me.

The chime of the clock and the direction of your eyes. A rooster crowing while The Clash was calling.

In all these connections, we were representative of nothing.

It was all quite impossible and an early form of madness. But you called it something else, what you thought you saw through the pews and beyond the hesitation to push past knees into the airplane aisle.

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