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Friday, July 15, 2016

Fighting Trim

     All my shit's broken. Nothing new. Cobbled together. Taped and patched. Just like me. But most of it still works. Just like me. Hooked up with tubes wheezing on these machines. Tick tock an old style clock spins its arms at the foot of my bed. I never could read those things. There's a crack runs across the plastic face of it. The nurse uses it when she checks on me.
     There's a windstorm tonight. More broken things tomorrow. I'm a polisher. I shine things up. Even the broken stuff, make it look good, give it some pride. I haven't been doing too much of that lately. Not much to be proud of, getting old, worn down, each second of that clock another gust of wind blowing away another part of me, some part I never knew or cared I had until it wasn't there anymore.
     Martha, the kids, all of it is broke. Taped and patched yeah, but we don't talk and they don't come see me here. I wouldn't either, that's why I had the nurse take away the mirror. Me, my machines, and that damn clock. And sometimes the wind, like tonight. Smashing down every little thing we make. Lifting it up and throwing it on the rocks. Taking away our answers, our breath, our sleep, whatever is dear and bringing it back as dust. No way to fix anything that broken.
     I know there's more, but I run out of steam. Just a little nap. A little recharging and I'll be back at it again, fighting trim. Tomorrow. Always tomorrow. 

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