Folded collar and a hungry tie
eating time.
Socks
trapped like a matchstick
in a phosphorus box
is longing the Maya of 400 square meters thing
we call home.
People with their data packs
gazing into abyss and bellies
at the edge of the Oort cloud
are comfortable in granitic moods.
The shakes and breaks of metro train
jolt the tobacco dreams of the city of the dead.
Cults of ID cards
beat the drums of samsara
from their Platonic caves.
Thy Vox 
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