Reza Monahan

Fall back into the sky for bold slave souls. Be stung by a sea laced with gold pirate teeth. Lean into the ground for Simon Bolivar’s old Creole frown. Fully occupied by a hopefully emptier tomorrow with an overgrowing yesterday as my tenant. Curaçao streams arc darkly in the sun as these breeze-kissed cultural whispers crackle along a disappearing trace.

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