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Into an oblique cylinder, a physical
manifestation of one’s mens rea. More
precisely, a copy of a copy of no copy.
Where silver ingots break into grey rivulets
and fugue down. One may conjecture on
physical ways out, or concentrate on the window:
rhododendron forests; an ochre rooftop; a tip of a tree
branch in a phthalo field. Both a part and
apart. Or to try to speak into a void (sort
of an improvisational hacking away at time).
Or to look in the mirror and see an empty face.
Or to keep moving forward and backward—slowly
and even slower yet, taking interstitial
steps—as if there is no place.
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