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My swirling wants. Your frozen lips. The grammar turned and attacked me. Themes, written under duress. Emptiness of the nations. They gave me a drug that slowed the healing of wounds. I want you to see this before I leave:
A red plant in a cemetery of plastic wreaths. A last attempt: the language is a
dialect called metaphor.
To do something very common, in my own way. 1970 |