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50 O u r T i n y D i m e n s i o n s The body’s measure is our way. The archetype narrowed and no one winced. We want something that doesn’t exist anymore because of biology. We want taut but get density, flour. The measure of organs is our way. We talk about it with strangers and should be ashamed. We’re planning the three tips that can shrink us. We’re holding our ankles hostage with a measuring tape: against it, bound to the tape. I want to turn myself into an infant. You want to be plinth. We’re figures. We’re lists of expenditure and food diaries, but today I held the middle of me in hand and shook it. It shook, shook like something fun. ...

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