on nights, i flick the fan onto three and, from the corner of my room, it creaks and rotates its dusty head in a small circle, thin neck too weak to support its tick and it keeps me cool before the storm. i like to think the fan and i have our chill in common but we probably don’t; my dust doesn’t collect or spread as easily but i guess baggage is all the same no matter how you carry it. i carry mine, all forty-nine kilos, and most of it is just old memory but there’s a bit of trauma and a touch of try-all-despite-all in there too and i like to think that all the pointless air floating about in there has lightened up a bit since the pills; i can’t be too sure, but that’s about it. i’m pretty simple when it comes down to leaving or staying and my neck never supported itself much anyway. i light a cigarette beneath the cool air and i drift into the nicotine high of three a.m. morning texts and the delight of a rickety old fan croaking all night long.
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