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Some days I expect you. Sometimes it's a limited depth of field that you want. Truth, facts, the true story, the real picture. Why do we hate? Sure.

Dear friend, I can believe in the influence of Mars as fully as I can in the aorta. It's all invisible, in a normal day—though felt, as rhythm or excitement or pressure. You have the plate you can't drink from. And that one's missing an arm. And making art, too, is a kind of disappearing. A bucket with holes, on purpose.


. . .



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