The thing that really gets me though are the corners. Not the geometrical ones, listen, I'm talking about corners. These corners, they're everywhere. I see them when I'm driving, when the rain is on the window and in my mind and all I can think is: fuck, I'd really like to go to that corner, between that tree and the ruined fence and just curl up and sleep. And they'll find me, I have no illusion of that, this is no utopia. Why are all the utopias solitary? I'll go over to that corner and I'll just be in it and it would be fine. I mean, I know it won't because all the cares and fears will come with me to that corner. But in some way, fuck I have to think that in some way, it will be better.

Who put the corners there? Between the rusted pipe and that parking van that seems as if they haven't been using in years, who put that there? Fuck that, who put it in me? Is that it, there's a corner inside me and it's crying out to all the corners out there? And that corner, the disused space between what I am and could be, is that the place that cries, alone, at night? Cries from remembering all those corners, all those places I know nothing about but still long to be in, for them to be in me? Fuck, there was this one between the underpass and that copse of sad, wavering trees. I nearly cried as the bus just kept driving, bashing my hands against the windows "stop the fucking bus, look at that corner! Listen to that corner!".

I remember one outside of Prague. I was so alone. I was looking for my place, for that feeling that I knew would come, and it wasn't there. It seemed the corner was gone but I knew it was there, like a bell that has rung years ago but you can still hear the echoes. I was starting to freak out, nails digging into my pockets. Where was it, where was the cry, why was I not feeling? When it struck, fuck, when it struck me it was like a thousand pens writing, a thousand elephants on the gates of my Roman soul, a thousand Brahmani dying. A simple thing; caught between what was surely once a proud house and was now a filtered out shell of miserable human life and the curb of a dirty pavement. It was so loud, so imminent, that I started crying, in a fucking street in a fucking Prague, a corpse of history if there ever was one.

And everything else was empty after that.

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