The wind is square, it smells of rain after dust. I slink under the university’s concrete awning. Each brick pillar is propped with a half full glass of snakebite. By the delivery entrance a polystyrene tray of shredded cabbage and fag butts is tied to the doorstop with a pair of tights. Streetlamps turn off and daylight follows me. It angers the gulls who pick at the stadium’s carcass. Bleach mist conceals all but the machine’s closeness. I am mad in every single way.
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