Goodness, what swamp did that pop up from?
By Fiacre Banks
September 11, 2019 2:04pm CST
I’ll sit in cafés and grow old, sordid cafés, sad cafés where smoke curls around naked light bulbs; ill-lit cafés with stained curtains. I’ll learn quickly to grow old, expecting nothing or anything other. I’ll grow old and leave it to a younger man to dig my grave, get paid for his labour, then future generations can forget me with an easy conscience.
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