The glint, with a flicker from the corner of its eye, the palmetto bug do, with long antennae tasting the mahogany with no scurry to fear… treading lightly leaving no footprints, across the horizon of the Fata Morgana. Looking for its bottle of insomnia beneath the flickering light as shadows dance, in a caravan made for two. Where whispers of the past linger like forgotten promises, the faint scent of cardamom cookies hanging in the air. Clinging to my lobotomy with a distant hum, a rum pum pum pum, on its drum. When drumming is forbidden, in the Roach Motel, where guests never check out, but always check in, with cockroach eggs and silverfish dreams.
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pum pum pum
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