Memory.

Memory elides into the eyes there (let it die) in the sloth of dreams, it is a protest against the ice shadow of what the fuck were we thinking under the frail permanence of memory, this stir dislocated into cracked lilacs red born as species, the earth moves the rock. The ocean shivers each broken […]

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mauvaises terres.

mauvaises terres. I. The Old Line. We drink red tea in the winter and summer by the pale, ocean shore with rain feeding on the sunlight with coffee beans, and spoke in broken languages to each other originating from your father in different countries of Europe, he speaks almost a dozen languages. You wished he […]

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