Everyone keeps telling me how hard it’s going to be but nobody asks me whether it’s difficult. I take their words and staple them to my coat like a wall of lost things made from budget flyer prints. I’m uncertain of the shape beneath the collage now, been a framework for so long I could very well be hollow. I peel off a sheet and write a plea on it, try and disseminate it on the street. Everyone keeps walking by with swift feet and assent, saying, it must be hard standing there, but nobody asks me to move.

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