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glue?
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in the last place you'd expect to find them, buffalo children are separating the spiders from the flies, hoping that you didn't hear the violins. violence, then, a tenet of the anti-tao, forces open the windows of the mosquito prison. she points to the clovers emblazoned on my sleeve, and then to the riverbed, with no one to blame but seventeen glowing lines of postulates. i never could have read them without the batteries, or the battery. underneath it all, the fish were still swimming, but the birds had taken on a different color. tail-chasing in the city of lights? it wasn't impossible.
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020917
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