Apples and Sunflowers

Life thick, dense. Universal apple. I’d dreamt of just such a place, and alas It has found me then. A hot dry air, breezy on the cusp of change. Brown and green.

A place of gypsies and migrant work. Like central Florida in a fruit pickers shack. Sans wet.

Florida sticks to your face in a way Colorado doesn’t. Both proposals press incessantly. One makes mold that follows you to your car, your apartment. One dries, mucus dehydrated. Both tender like a mothers love, like bees in sunflowers, nudging, begging attention.

Apples and sunflowers in conversations about the Kings of Malaysia.

I could hate it all. But I can’t and I keep coming back to it. To us.

Time travel will make you mad.

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