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but it was going out.

It was 10pm, so it was like a blacker than black sun setting.

I sat to talk to my dead. I called their names. Waited.

I was quiet to talk to my dead. I said their names. Waited.

I cried. I tried to talk to my dead. I said their names. I waited.

Which is now a thing I do. I don't know why. I want it to change. To be different. For love to survive or failing that -- Hate. For something to happen.


At best what I look at when I look at myself -- I've become my other-- my soul mate. The crazed artist with ideas, plans and paint from head to toe and then I'm the trying to be normal "real job" person picking paint out her nails, picking up a not bad at all check. But really, people think an artist with dreads lacks intellect or there's a lack of respect. They talk why the dead do not.

But there's the issue -- I'm the artist who wants to fucking flip tables, birds, skirts and what the fuck.

I'm the person who likes to pay her rent.

I'm the person who'd drink a bottle of rum in a church pew and feel I belonged there.

She'd want me to pretend I can sing Amazing Grace from stem to stern.

And together, we sat on the beach tonight with the pug who was sniffing, spitting and chasing ghost crabs.

And I talked to my dead. We said their names over and over again over the waves as the black sun of the storm set in the horizon. A black blacker than sleep.

They did not talk back. They did not talk back to either of us.

Again.

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