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Scream by Edvard Munch


It’s Friday. The blinds are all the way down and turned shut.

Alone in his cell he sits and mulls his options.

The weekend seems intimidating, like it will get him in trouble.

He can’t go anywhere and still he feels unsafe.

Somehow bad luck always finds him.

Living behind locked doors doesn’t guarantee anything.

He presses his bald head against the stone wall and wants to rupture his skull.

Pluck out the brain that drives him.

He turns toward the small aperture on the ceiling and screams.

A girl walking in the forest hears an owl.

November 2, 2012 10:31 pm

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