More or less you, but not you. Something drawn over the surface of the sound like camouflage. Draggled, perchance; of the texture an RPG, or an urban garden. The sound of being distracted by the idea of distraction. One. Which was once two. Faded, or dissolved. Sewer pipes, ceramics, graffiti’s myth. & your other self. The one thus come. That kind of just came in, here, and breathed all the while, suddenly dominating, like a bacterial infection taking over one of your organs for a bit, until your mind picks up on it and you start to fight it. Sound, like that. Micro-snippets that flit in and out, like tadpoles exploring their mommy’s favorite pond. Or fighting off something, wishing it away. Or on the street in any city, there.
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