Last night

Simone Weil,

a glass of milk,

the air-conditioner, already on in March,

a small container of licorice

a bottle of water

a small box of pickled unripe mangoes

lip balm, strawberry

a half opened diary with a pen inside

earplugs

a grey-indigo blanket

a dull pain on my left wrist

 

that doesn’t go away

 

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