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November 5, 2021 / barton smock

2016 untitled thing(s)

I tell it what I tell my stomach. If I die, you die. There are limits to what the past can do. I had a kid, once. Insects were invisible. My mom was a face turning two from god. Never, worm, do I know where to start. Nightfall, and the number of hands I’ve collected hasn’t changed. Brother still kicks himself for the nine months he couldn’t film. The best thing he wrote down had in it a father, who’d never seen a wheelchair, setting a trap for a wheelchair. It is like me to wait.

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