Headless Feliz Molina left today for Sikkim, India. Y'all don't know her, but you should. Still on my arm in red ink is what she 4 am drunkenly scribbled a few nights ago: "In the drawer are some pictures on paper and on that paper I can sense I can sense I can sense your hand as thick as the thought of it. Your skin is what left the pictures sun burnt, not the film." I can't bear to wash it off. I'm starting to smell.


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