It’s very inconsiderate to wake up laughing like it’s Sunday, the sound of sweat on the body welcoming us to music in our shut eyes I imagine you as a broken fiddle only started just last week learning how if we break into the auditorium we’ll read the paragraphs first we are immediately vocabulary—I do things, you fold laundry up your camera in your skirt we are feeling affection and making numbers—whatever note grows up to music has no idea in two point five pages I’d say it and spoil the whole thing.


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