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A human being is here. He doesn't disappear

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The strange bones of language wander the room.

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"MAN S FEET HAVE GROWN/SO BIG THAT HE/FORGETS HIS LITTLENESS"--DON MARQUISA Century of Art Everything in this chummy little place talks to your face without stopping to look and see who you really are, turns into fruits and grains, finally filling the room with…

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Certain disorders lend themselves to poetics.

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This was not the bar that the artist usually frequented.

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It was a lover’s dark. They had been talking for hours when daylight lost interest and had gone elsewhere for sport.