Imogen Cassels

Maybe a pay-phone in France would still reach you; in the South; in the third or second life. Still then as a teenager, bloodless and senseless, skidding another riven diagram into the dust. Now even staggered into fake quietude I can’t believe there is no causeway to the dead. Why should there not be. I know it is just a zip in circumstance. Tending June’s snow driven to musk and peachlit common rain. I would rather be studding euros into a slot, sighing and missing my tether for living.

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