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Waiting By The Watershed Poised on edge of plastic chair scoping winterscape in rain filled graywashed scene. Seen through aluminum and green plastic verticals while drips, drip on. Must be fifty degrees. Must be nearing the end of everything. The patio is where the patients come to sit and smoke cigarettes and chat. Some cry because they hurt so bad they can no longer pretend not to. THIS IS WHERE WE HAVE GATHERED UNDER THE GRAY WET WINTER. To mourn the loss of expectation, of our grasp on the impermanent. Spiritual pilgrims in the cold church of those who love life no longer. I hear highway traffic and airplanes. I see dead trees and dying dreams. THIS IS WHERE WE HAVE GATHERED. Must be nearing the end of everything.
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