Goes Around

Archive

The weight of the world rests on our shoulders. Yet the fate of the world lies beneath the heels of the rich, their carbon footprints stamped down like corporate logos.

The sands that I would pretend were sprinkles, where I’d roll around in, feeling like a brigadeiro. The sea where I learned that the best way past a tall wave is through it. It was now buried in oil and the federal government refused to do anything about it.

At the Supermarket You don’t see peanuts plucked out of the ground

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