are on the run. From what I can only imagine. From what is told. Waste that are given to feed the pig. It can never be sated. I believe only in what I touch. Everything else I was disappointed. And since then disillusioned. Even just a caress or a look may not be enough. I want the sweat and toil and aching bones. On the run you can not expect to stay there forever. You know that sooner or later you will resume. But can last as much as possible. You can only think of it last as much as possible. If I get up on the pedals, can last as much as possible. Then push hard until you feel your legs tremble. Until you hear blood in the veins burst and muscle screaming for mercy. Feel your back sag in the hope of slipping away quietly. The air in the face to remind me that I'm running, endorphins to remind me that I'm opening a passage.
Polaroid 320, 669 expired film, Giro di Romagna 200 9
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