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Laughers crime deposited a cautious belligerent mess, trojans carrying a horse in their pocket. A big one made out of wood to fight a purpose, to get through the solid walls. My metal horse is better. Metal holds out longer than wood. That little horse is mine, I love it. I look out to see it standing there, where I always keep it, it knows the dilemma, it sees me. Those horse eyes have trouble, but its stance, the grace of its legs -- those horse eyes, those are the sponges that grasp the tales, sucking in grace and response. Utilitarian issues. I touch it only occasionally, and then with gentle strokes.


        A game was drawn where it stands on the shelf. The lives are foreign, the way it was to be played, unknown to me. I've studied it, staring at its principles to gather in what it The  for, what I'm to do with it. Beneath metal horse's small hooves I try to recover the object of the game printed. It was there when I got the shelving. I've always questioned it. The game pieces, if any were needed, I do not have. It is just lines, almost like staffs, routinely connected, adjusted in a way so that it could be fun. I don't think the horse knows what to make of it either.



Bands, boundaries that fit around the dearborn. Sealers in a commencement procession,


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