And from the gutted ivory I birthed an immense quiet. In the lateness, the walls and the tiles stretching, sinking into a greater configuration. There were the hollows beneath my tongue, caverns deeper than moons, than the ends of god. Here, there’s always a burial of feeling, the weary moments passing through into the parts of me that span everything, a misty patched space broader than my fingers or the small streams of blood. The body is stunted; most of what I feel and know exists in the air, in the crooks of imaginary space. So many things endlessly tumbling and traveling through one square-inch of skin. All this found through a bullet wound, the opposite side of a name.
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