The Runcible Blog

I walk to the store. toilet paper, spaghetti o's, paper towels, a rice noodle bowl. I walk home on street-lit cobblestones while the bag rustles, still, my keys echo in October air breathing faster – a plane overhead The oil in my bowl like drops of blood is not a placid heart that floats on salted water. Somewhere a girl slowly kills herself. sitting in my chair, I sip the noodles. nose runs, eyes drip from the steam...
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