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Spectacles I don't move but the grass in the window does an utter smear campaign. The trees revert to wet green, and the irises with a saliva of high shine cast even the mud of what I can see blue as a colorfast blood. I'm no longer a man of distinction: a window fills with resemblances, a face like mine, an evening's long damp beard like lawn. The paperboy appears to wheel familiarly across my vision, trick of doubles, only to leave warped tracks. This is no news, good news. I don't move in the dark. My wire-rimmed glasses sprawl on the desk, either a bright suggestion to the uncorrected eye, or a small wrecked bicycle. 93 ...

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