Shaking off the dishwater and moving your fingers in imitation of your thoughts, you said they are leaving you with a sorrow appropriate for marble pillars and empty ampitheatres. I could not answer, but chopped garlic small - nearly missing overfamiliar digits repeatedly. Going away - this is the kitchen dance, i pirouette out of the way of the refrigerator door, you fetch and assemble. These steps are worn in your head - the locale of sink or stove a background beat to the song. Amber oil, pungence of damp basil leaves, one firm red pepper, soon to be pithed, gutted; these are arranged neatly, nimbly, as one does not always notice the bass line or the color behind a pattern; you have been walking the future, wearing out faces before they are yet new, and have said before at a pause, they are leaving me.

Leaving from.
Going to.


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