Please, tell me I am not the only mother, only wife setting the night table for my dead.
Verbs begin to spiral from her mouth and coil outward into the sky.
I've made most of this up, the apples, the stupidity, the bourbon bought in St. Paul.
later, i'll wonder if looking into the sun makes me crazy, or gives me secret terrible knowledge.
Bruce is reading Wuthering Heights, I’m curling up with Numerical Semigroups.
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