The record ending is a piece of paper crumbled up and eaten.
It reminds me of bugs dying on light bulbs. It reminds me of brown curled leaf-ends. I wrote a letter and then I stopped. My hair crisped from a shooting flame, it felt like a record ending. The dirt has been dry, the roots have been aching over how to feed the leaves. I have a folder full of letters that I'll never send.
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