October wears a shirt, with sleeves that cannot
contain overreach. Hands burst from cuffs, their actions at odds with restraint.
Everything goes digital. Its buttons help tighten the secrets the years keep in
store. No amount of washing changes the facts. Trousers, that stride through the
world in abstract certainty, are folded each night without illusion. The belt
does its best to keep up appearances. October wears the coat of convenience and
hat of notice. Shoes worship the ground they walk on, close as they can get.
They’ve dealt with shit. They’ll never be famous. Socks are even more
well-rounded.
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