A woman, with a cap, the nape of her neck, brittle like old drift wood, as it clings like a rope, as if in full swing, all will be broken, shoved up into the eaves, where the fires, move and crack, and the small combustibles, crouched together, wait their tutn, watching for the black man to finally climbin the stairs, as the first step creeks, waiting for him to kick in the door. as with each new remembering, the embers burn. Thing that happened, things forgot , incidences he inhabited. Us Staring at the white square, as undefeated he tries to get in. MB
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