Days spent packing all my worldly goods into a storage space across town, the place seems like a home away from home. The rows of silent, sun-bleached buildings seem to mirror my internal loneliness. Occasionally the wind rattles a lock or a leaf, but otherwise there is nothing.
The sun is so bright it washes out everything. The blue paint is peeling. Little chips of blue flake off onto the concrete. I keep remembering the place as looking a little better than it does. If this is what my loneliness would look like, then it should look a little better. It's loneliness, but it doesn't feel so bad. At least among these silent rows, there is momentary peace.
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