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Tel Quel

je sais bien mai quand même

When I sleep, I do not sleep at all. By the time I have woken up, I would have substantially degenerated. With drugged gravity I walk to the bathroom to look into the mirror, not at me but my way and I see a spectre of sorrow drenched in the pallor of her own filth and transgressions.

Then she (re)turns to the sink, rejecting her material reality from the depths of her soul to the bowels of her enumerated vessel into Hitchcock’s eye of the storm; a circular ad infinitum of moral degeneration and cancers receding, increasing (bottom up.) Again, with willowed movements it follows me, and I resisted; In what distant deeps or skies, burnt the fire of thine eyes?

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