Two hundred and seven words. 18

by kvennarad

Here there’s no need to set back the town from the highway passing through; in other lands, the highway’s a series of bands – sand, tan, brown, brown-grey, black, and back down the nihilistic spectrum – the structures on the other side are squat and alien, the people (when they appear, if they appear) are tiny, moving patches, and it gives you pause that you’re the same to them; but here people stare into the trucks and cars as they pass, letting the travellers read their faces as clearly as they themselves can read the shop signs; things can be small, no place for giant billboards, the highway can shiver through the contours of the town, compressed, balled into a fist, checked and balked by stoplights and roundabouts; we can, rather, but we don’t; the crowding buildings, the shops and tenements, the people who warren them, no one meets your eyes and you don’t meet theirs, we’re sufficient without each other, clanned by difference of space, folded against each other to the maximum, to the extent the folds want to spring apart, to dare to intersect but not interpenetrate (however), each despoiled but both virgins; despite us, our damnable proximity, there is no town, and there is no road;

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jupiter©Marie Marshall

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