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the stillness of the water as we
run down the spaces in between, an urge to clean up all remembrance of joy, tiny skies lying on the hot bathroom floor: breathe and count, serenissima, the light is dying on us. where the telling meets the image as in here and now there are no white lies adding up to a perfectly full zero. no dirt in the words dragged and dropped just in case we should fail to connect. no pipes only steam and a superb anticipation of fear: breathe, serenissima, we are not to stare at the hole during the slip.
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