Ethan Hawke letter 47, 081424
Letter 081424
Dear Ethan Hawke
In the dream I am reading to myself as a child from a book called all the places my suicide has taken me. It does not make me sad but I’m awake somewhere. Televisions are where mirrors go to paint. Mothers lose their sense of smell above too many unmarked infants. In the dream a surgeon emerges from the high corn and coughs up another’s blood. Above the dream, we’ve a surplus of resurrection. Mourning mourns a revocable loss.
kingsoftrain 
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