It takes forty two steps over one long stretch of land, going from one key to the next, a flat in London, an apartment in New York.
Personal reflection, weird and magical, a layer of secret weaponry. All this is powder pressed and unleashed upon an unexpected world.
There are forty two steps taken, stepping over the cracks in the walkway. The shards of glass and white pebbles seem to glow in the cold moonlight.
I hold dear to me, my cocktail kit. The letters you sent me, my crucifix and tea and coffee. I take forty two steps to my mailbox and forty two to come inside and think of you.
I keep my box of tricks nearby, amusing me in the still of the night. Turning each key to make my dreams more real.
Reality hits me hardest when I close my mind. The fantasy is uncovered.
I take my forty two steps again and I’m back to where I started from.




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