Open Letter to the Dead Awake

We live in a latitude and longitude between sorrow and soliloquy, beatitudes and bullets. Police lineups of mockingbirds sing strange melodies. The heart’s ER is filled to capacity. The dice we roll change their numbers daily. Very little can be trusted, only that the sun will rise come morning, and even that promise has been written in a slowly disappearing ink. With all the baptismal rivers drying up, it can be tough to get a warm welcome into the world. If only breath were the new currency, we’d strive for one another to remain alive.

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