there is a mustached man who lives inside the chapters.
if you turn the pages, you can smell the decades. old and worn.
time passes, records sell. it’s a hit this year and we’re going to make it.
a small trip, back in time. running, heavy fingers along the letters.
black. typographic. photographic memories.
a tiny space, cooks up thoughts. white winter hymnal.
and I am alone. and I’ve gotten it all together.
I smile. And so does the mustached man.
Odd. Strange. Reminiscent of a charismatic character.
Lost in time, over time, he has become melodramatic. Free.
Fragile, not sensitive. These pages are getting expensive.
squeeze down the tiny staircase, filled with words. spill into the street.