The soft sound of a warm, bittersweet er hu coming from the streets at 6.40 am — do not underestimate its emotional power
I hate the sounds of leaving:
My dirty clothes rumbling in the dryer below my room.
Plastic lids buckling and unbuckling, dragged along carpet.
Bed covers’ muffled rumpling.
A symphony of zippers.
Reluctant sighs, hesitating to be released, each wondering if it will be the last under the buzz of these exact fluorescent lights, echoing off these exact walls, joining the hum of this exact madness.
And yet, somehow, there is still beauty in this tragedy.