a project of skill-less and dead-author labor turned dead-text turned dead-reader, love affair with space, some cloud to influx information without regard for human eyes. &poetry
Wednesday, July 26, 2017
i fear the cool air going in and going out my nose. breath in. breath out. it feels good, though
remain stuck on subjects without affect. possessive individualists didn't have to look a certain way. the fact that we make a ceremony out of it. overheating tools. some hardware to discern from soft skin, pulling objects from hats, because they are good with their hands.
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