the punks who wanted to be machines

get out of this house!

Spring has only begun to peck at the shell from within, but we’re plucking its wobbly, wet body out and pretending 50 degrees is 80 degrees.

The roads are a tessellating plane of bone dry and sloppy, gritty muck.

No, that is a lie. There is no symmetry here.

A dry expanse. Then a flooded stretch, the water only deep enough to allow it to flow. There are branches and dams, islets of snow severed from the mainlands by parking cars.

A cold winter is a time for hiding: five miles is a short ride but our lungs are still young.

We tie our feet to the pedals to feel closer to this simple machine.

The wind stings and our tears flow, little rivers feeding back into the ground.

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Digital warlock and all around mixed metaphor. Also, VP of Digital at Fifteen4.

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