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The Trough

Afternoon. The trough. Restless snakes seeking shelter in veins.

Parched and peeling, a reticulated brain.

Nothing has plummeted, stretching the well fabric of potential to its tearing point. A local minimum that only evening, with its cool darkness and possibility can fill.

The photographer covers her iris; the labourer mops his brow. Too harsh and too hot.

Existence tempered only by the eternal difference of tomorrow.