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End of the road
There are no returns
other than memories.
More relocations than return addresses,
than towns you could memorize.
More objects rushed into a suitcase
than unpacking.
What we carried with us
was needed merely as a disguise,
hoods and trekking shoes serving a ritual
of transformation.
Van Gogh used to eat yellow
paint for melancholy.
We breath the road
in, its yellow, sunny timelessness.
Now I can see that we did not look
for home, just for the punch line.
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