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8 In a Dream My Skin seemed like rag paper, the kind that absorbs watercolors. Every so often a vein would hemorrhage beneath the flesh of my forearm. I’d watch it spread the way ink spreads on a blotter, as if my pulse, my heart was made visible. I couldn’t stop the bleeding, and the doctors didn’t know what to do. Hard to resist watching it, a scarlet peony blooming fast-forward as if death had considered my love of beauty. ...

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