punch enough holes in body to allow words to seep out like language’d sap

To find out what was really there, look in the background. People will always smile for photographs but teeth are just a costume covering the cavities and undetected craters of sickness.

How to walk away from documentation when words never run out of film or flash and isn’t this just hypocrisy?

Go a day without telling it. Go a day without questioning every moment and just relax inside an image. A feeling. A sense.

I actually don’t need you to tell me you are sick. I can feel it each time you lean your hips into me. You don’t have to announce your sighs. I’ve turned you up like a radio; go ahead, static.

Is there a world which exists off this grid of electric wiring and photographic bragging?

I’ve turn this body into a machine. Aren’t all bodies machines. With coils and metal and marks and breaking and instructional manuals.

Place suffix firmly against…against….against anything in need of a derivative.

Send me a map. Go on. Cut it up like Burroughs did. Hand it back to me and calculate when my lost will arrive. Then wait for me to appear.

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