somebody is flinching by the mobile florist, getting lynched with fatigue and crumbed tobacco cascading everywhere like a film about a sleepless childhood. down an alley a few blocks away a barrister snorting coke knits his harvard muscle-cardigan with rusty spokes and quivers. everything quivers for the girl by the water, blinking icicles into her dead twins fluttering face. waves are making blankets out of us, and awnings build shelters from the rain. book x treats the leaflets like they are alight and yearning, and is under gender-surveillance making notes on the social dynamic of light-globe jokes.
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