Tomorrow we will make things that are sore-angry and open-wounded and that are vicious and vile-vulgar and that vituperate and that are ugly-as-fuck and wrong-headed and too-loud-to-hear and that bleed-in-clots and that scream with open-grey-mouths and leave a bitter-sour taste and emptiness and boredomboredom and

I pass a railway building on the train on the way into Manchester. The sign says Vitriol Works. 

Tomorrow we will make things that heal that reach that hold that talk that laugh that soften that caress that meet that quieten that brighten that warm that  

I pass through mountains. And back again.


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