jimmi campkin


Sitting on the carpet, I can see the faint white shapes surrounded by pale yellow, where old pictures and ornaments used to hang.  Now that I am finally tall enough to reach, they are gone.  The apartment is empty.

This place is a tomb with a glass window, where I look out on the earth and the worms staring inwards, waiting for their moment to break through and consume.  From a dark corner of the hallway I can smell the perfume of a long dead relative, so I close the door and push a chair against it.  I turn the television on, but mute the sound.  I want the ghosts to know I’m in here, but I want to hear them first.

Climbing on a little table, I look out of a window across the dim yellow lights of a cold town.  Five floors up, the window frame rattles with…

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