In search of something else,
an old photo album falls from shelves.
Photos of thirty-seven years.
I remove, maybe, ten.
Photos, I mean, I guess,
not years.
Although really, I may mean years,
after all.
I throw the rest into the trash.
The thought of so many memories,
laying, filthy, in a landfill,
is exhilarating,
in a nauseous, spiraling,
kind of way.
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