There are more of us here than there ever were here before

The last thing I saw was his palm touching the wet window of a railroad car. It was dark inside. Something wrong happened with their lightning. And I remember trying to find his figure in all that mess of people, luggage, sounds, evening cold air, and darkness. I guess he could see me struggling to find him. I guess my eyes were full of pain and fear.

That’s why he touched the window.

That was the last I saw. Then the tears burnt my face and I went away. I didn’t touch his palm back as they show it in movies. I just went away.

I know I shouldn’t be feeding this grief.


Damon Albarn — Hostiles

Damon Albarn — Father’s Daughter’s Son

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