She says that now she has time to do anything she wishes, with whoever.
Time is no longer an object to be crowed after, but when one has time to much they become boved but for a person who has been educated, who finds his refuge in a place far away, under a mango tree, distant from the pane of sight, which he attempts to numb each day, in books, in words, on hallowed parchment with that sword between his thumbs, in the cave of a fragile newspaper or magazine while on the morning train, all the pages entwined together tightly while life falls apart.
He finds his oasis in books.
TIME NO LONGER.
© Copyright Benjamin Cooté 2018
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