Dove Simon, drunk enough to miss two chances to cross a minor and untrafficked road Remembers how the walk signal is controlled, arrives home having met nobody, known or unknown
And the door's heavy, the entrance light's angry, the stairs are impossible
So she reaches between buttons to feel her ribs her skin rocks back and forth over them She lies in the centre of her living room staring upwards with everything buzzing
She decides to think one word at a time: "IT'S A CRIME SHAME ABOUT SHAME ABOUT NOT HAVING A WORD FOR NOT FOR WHAT I KNOW ABOUT WHAT I..."
Any light makes the room an empty subway station. Her fingers feel like thin wires.
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