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I can't tell my friends apart.
I can't tell if they're my friends,
or if they're just too polite.
These failures I create don't count as art.
They're a means, but not an end,
and I'm too ashamed to write
It's way too late to count my sins,
I vanished, both from you and from the South.
The years afterward, they flew,
and without a word from me.
One letter (sounds so easy, said out loud)
would have helped to stitch the wound
that won't close until I see
or clay, or nothingness,
that you're behind,
from Cementing EP
released February 14, 2016
a trumpet recorded from far away
cheap wooden chopsticks on a wooden table
a little baby tambourine
the clapping of some nerd's hands