Cold altitude in Murghab, where sudden movements take your breath away. The most removed place I could find on a map, a retreat from the foreground.
The coal stove in the corner belongs in a museum. Tonight will demand every ember. The walls dance with shadows of ambitions never faced and then forgotten.
Question my neglect of family and work back home, but I am essential to neither. Truthfully, I am not made of that much.
Under mismatched quilts, this is not the start nor the end, it is a dreary middle. Behind a sheet plastic window, I am disappearing.
Kevin Campbell writes to revel, relive and reveal. Additional works can be found at kvc.carrd.co.
The Centifictionist 
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