“Imaginary Power,
Real Horizons
- The Practicality
of Utopianism”
looks like
a good
book, underneath this
poem. Meanwhile
the Eagles play a
meaningless game since
they’re already in.
But the grass, it looks
so good and green,
I can smell the mud
just about, like
when I was
fourteen and playing
myself.
I wonder where…
woops we lost the
signal, guess
we’ll watch X-Files
instead.
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