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
Sunday, January 16, 2022
it is a minor play
`an off proscenium`
it was cold all the time.we couldn't eat.each other least of all
i wore a mask
she wore a mask
and she wore a mask
so did her mask too
you think i'm garbage? you haven't even smelled me yet.
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