content machine
It came out of the woods and never swam again. I had wanted to give it a shape, but want is an angel burning a star with its stomach. I was most nights writing toward want. I started a magazine with a man bent by god. The man had a name, but I didn’t care. He took my form and then one for himself. I still have some of his needs. If a thing lived, it was our bulimic bird with no young.
kingsoftrain 
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