Thursday, 22 January 2015

Lachrymose Latches

The window sits ajar; cool air pours in but no one can be bothered to close it. The dilapidated fibro walls perspire condensation in protest. Everyone is lazy, everyone is still. There's a hand-print on the ceiling in the hallway and everything is drab and uncared for. A single batten fluorescent light flickers sometimes in distress, bouncing light off the once well painted concrete floor. The locks are on the wrong sides of the doors and someone is crying.

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