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A world without Bill.

This building would be a hotel.

Stuck, fucking stuck

My first words to be heard and I’m fucking stuck

Stuck in a fucking airport, surrounded yet unseen, in a river of people trying to make time.

I got all the time and no time. Awake since 11 pm; fueled by 7&7’s and internet pills.

I wish the bartender would ask, he don’t.
Will the whiskey wash away the gunk in the gears? It wont.

I can write about nothing, but the concerned material is lost.
I need a concise impression of a man’s life, but God and a thousand people put a plug in the pipes

What to do, what to do
What to do, what to do

A Chinaskian muse has me on the wrong feeling.
I’m done for, simply clutching a weak metaphor




photograph by Matthew Wiebe

Image Curve’s Manifesto

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Jordan Clayton

I know a little about a lot, I write what I feel and know. I feel like Hank Chinaski lately. I've lived near airports all my life. I think; it gives the impression of escape.

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