don’t go to Acapulco

Where are we going, where have we been? Crossroads. Cross-thread, stitched to the past. This material wears thin. Light pierces the raiment. Kind spirit, tell me, who are these beings I see before me?
“These are merely shadows of your past–these things cannot be altered.”
Ceaselessly, the tailor’s fingers pass the thimble, needle. Illuminated!
The garment, inside of which we find ourselves, time and time again, trapped like flies in a milk bottle.
Much is to be learned.
We’ll come by here once more.
I shan’t speak these words.
We’ll never be this way again.
I’ll always be this way.
Blinking in the dusty sunlight, nostalgia attached to the place of changes. The airplane approaches, North by North-West.


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