Sunday
My experience with this book needs to be perfect but the sticker won't let it be pristine— the mark of industry of sales of dollar bills and this sun in my eyes like diamonds forcing me to look away Outside the snow lies flat and dimpled— old deer tracks now covered with fresh shavings of ice dropped from the sky like money covering everything and doing no good This day tastes like a robbery— the sun a reminder of summer the snow a reminder of reality the ticking clock a reminder of the week ahead of work of dollar bills of the hours I trade that will never be returned to me
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