leaving my bedroom window open allows for the dirty l.a. air to blow in, bringing along with it dirty l.a. dust. *cough cough!* i hate dusting, mostly because it only pushes the dust back into the air to fall on another piece of furniture. the last line of this poem is the title of a faulker novel that i never finished reading. it too collects dust on my bookshelf.
thin layer of dust
collects on my cold body
as i lay dying.
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