some kind of phantom solace: resignation to excuse the day without loathing where it leads me. growing up or giving in? we make the same bed either way. every trial takes the carriage to the pillow or the grave.
we stop by the beach on the way to the airport. you live in a jar just over the hill with a view of the bridge between strangers. I've not visited all year and maybe this is growth, though I think I've just found other gods to blame for how I am. Dad asks me to tell him what he can do to help. I don't have an answer and feel embarrassed by my dependence on problems I draw somewhere between my apathy and privilege. my parents watch and wait for word on what I need. I waste their love on metrics I can't meet: a prodigal parasite crawling back for more.
clouds open for flying. I spy five parrots from the passenger seat. the driver talks to someone else.
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