Sitting in the sun on a couch in a sunny, couch-filled room. We’re up in the mountains, where the mountains are mountains; and the hustle and the bustle, the grime and the crime (mostly non-violent and noted mostly for the rhyme) of the city we come from (we came from) and then some is far from our minds, but not at this time, as I sit here and write this.

I’m like this.

I right this. I check it. Genuflect and correct it.

And now I suppose my prose has morphed into a terse sort of verse.

And now as I worry this has all gone too wrong, I see by the clock I’ve been writing too long.

The rules of open-mic write say now I must stop. Tag it and post it, don’t mind it’s a flop.

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