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The Weather Station
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Don't Understand
I slept on couches, other people's houses, overwhelmed in borrowed sheets. I went through their records, they had piles of bills and letters and all these photographs of people I would never meet. Laid out in the light, shirt on my eyes, and I try but I know I won't sleep. And I don't understand anything that has happened to me. Like I'm telling a friend and I don't even believe me. Where had I put it now, where had I hidden the proof? I looked down at my hands lined with nothing but the ways I had moved. And in waking and in sleeping everything irretrievably new - and I go out for meals, and I meet up for coffee. Could be how it feels, irreversibly free.
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