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Wary be thy gratitude. Hounds on my heels. Fat men play little string instruments over their bellies like Buddha lost in perspiration. Transcribed in a language so foreign. Human sight does not know. Boaring holes in the incense sticks for something to do. Darlings in the sand, buried not for me, but for a child.


        Picture diaries draw upon rational conclusions. A moment caught, now to re-live puts me in a frenzy. I beg and cry. Pissed. Dreaming a single dot, a bespectacled jewel of a dot, to be with me and hold me. On a tenor tabloid, a scrapbook faces me. I won't open it. I'll touch it barely to slip it in its place on the shelf. Soap to my hands.


        Pain and an aspirin washes it out. Lower tract relief. A dozen blotters used up, containers empty.


        Justice pillows to lay my head on. I feel the working helpers. They march out of their caves so cute, but not singing. I wish they would. The flute it starting to develop finger stains. Oxidation riding on my metal horse. I think the war has started. Though it doesn't startle me, the rays emitted from the trees stand still. Cautious.


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