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on the white of this paper
i’m a bird wandering in the mist but all the deaths have been born all the lives have been lived all the births have been died it knows my toys my limping my false passports my favourite sorts of trees my lies grown in the back of the house my birth signs the horizon towards which i’m heading like a drifting continent it lets me to grope blinded by light smiles at my absurd strains doesn’t tell me a word i squeeze it in my fists make it a pellet and swallow it up
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