Hey, guys, I haven't posted a prose poem in a while, so ba da bing. Happy St. Swithins day by the way.
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If you arrange all your shoes in perfect order, point them north, and casually look at your watch the minute the sun goes down, you’ll know how it feels to be prepared. The warrior outside, roaming hills with the moon as his friend, understands that when he lives, and with his sword and gun, he’ll die a little bit, more and more. This makes him smile and I wish I was there. You wish that you were there too, with me, right now. You would not say to me to take my time. I’d smash a local radio and shout all of the day is gone. You are gone. You would not say to me to love the way of shadows from hollows. You would say go climb into a tank, drive down the main road, and make your mark in explosions. Everyone will have to say your name then. But I don’t want to. Not really, I don’t think.