A ghost who won’t die


Cicadas screech in the humid air, across the horizon the city brushes the heavens, in the corner of my room bags sit, half packed. The setting sun filters through the silk drapes, illuminating the room in its life. I gaze at the bags, they are in some ways my safety net. All my belongings can fit in to them, easily dragged behind me through the sprawling airports across the globe. 

Keep going. 



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