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Burn Baby
2:11 a.m. 2006-04-08

Tonight is a spiraling of echoes resplendant in distrophy and distortion. And she won't leave me. These transcripts trace patterns across the ebb and flow of our relationship, all in past tense, and communiques project her voice in muted tones over the speakers on my telephone. Old letters and messages she left. This haunt tears reverberations through the walls of my bedroom, casting fragments of memory like windblown regret flickering fragile under candle light guttering. The stairs creak below her distant feet in rememberance of footprints that fade like dust, becoming nothing more than parenthetical footnotes to the memory of this house and she won't leave me. Stairways forget the steps that give them voice but the cascading crossfade of her last words refuses to dim. Hallways stained in pained glass to drip nostalgia over worn images and every photograph of her has lost its color, like she took it with her when she left. Every time I close my eyes, the wood of these walls warps in a mimickry of memory and the past plays out engrained in this edifice. The shuddering sighs of windfall cast stuttering moans through this gutted house and she won't leave me. Midnight chimes in star toned inclinations and the hands on the clock spell out her name like impossibility made real through some fucked up miracle and I can't escape this, not tonight. So let the candle light eviscerate the structured integrity of this nightmare and memories burn like desperation, or hope. And she still won't leave me, but maybe this time I can leave her.

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words @ jake, layout @ kelly