Listening to: "Balloonman" - Robyn Hitchcock
Staring distantly from myself into everything that was nothing, I dreamt that I stood in my old backyard beneath the tree that bore green plums. Looking around, I felt as overgrown for the place (or the memory of) as the plants that climbed the splintered, leaning fence. And I wanted so badly to fit it again. For it to fit me as before.
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