In the wind down hour, I put these bits of me up.

Filling one wall at a time.

For years, few people came to and left my shapeless exhibition.

They smile.

They talk.

They sometimes leave money in exchange of these soul pieces.

Some paint their souls with my colors.

Others leave stains at the doorstep.

But, it’s all too muted.

Maybe what’s in my head makes all that pale in comparison.

The silence plagues me until the time is 00:00 and I can count again, from 1 to rhythmic dappled light in my head.

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