is what it could be. Dancing half-naked to forgotten music, an intoxicated figure approaches. We cast invisible cellophane curtains; the rising temperature replaces possible caresses. This is perhaps an insulated thought.
i run down the stairs and lie on a graveled road. It is hot, but the dirty floor is cold to the touch. The pebbles make their nests in my skin, and i do not notice.
Pressed against the cracks of a couch, i wake with a deep line traversing the back of my hand.
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