the process is the artwork

Not in my backyard, please

My head was pondering this morning, my pulse higher than ever before. I was burning alive, as a close friend watched me from a safe distance, match sticks in hand. I forgive you, little matches boy, you’re only struggling to survive.

It is not enough to think happy thoughts. The flames die eventually, as dreams fade out, night becomes day, but the smoke still lingers in the air. The smell comes from the window but is concentrated in my bedroom. It must be the neighbours, firing up in the cold. There is no wind to transport it elsewhere. I am condemned to live in your chimney, and someone else in mine.

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