Like Aegeas cliff-jumping for his son at the wrong black sails,
Or Montagues and Capulets missing each other by terrible inches of time,
Things get fucked up. And weird, and quiet, and cosmic.
The sorry silence of elevator air can mean just about anything.
And it most assuredly means something every time.
If only there was a way to tell What. Every time.
Then maybe one could have a hand in the whole damn thing.
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