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45 DEAr bLACK PEACh, and dear fruit flies, queens of the quick/slow good-bye, what does it feel like to be so finite? Do you realize the white ceiling lines of your painted sky will shut down on this day of perfection, your 24-hour life, become a final darker-than-you night? OnWednesdays a person’s life feels blandly infinite— it is alwaysWednesday and it will beWednesday again and how manyWednesdays until. . . . but thisWednesday, yours, dear little ones, you are masters of sweet industry, masters of sex and your small important love for life/death. the peach has died, but at what moment, i can’t say. i keep it and let you live your day. i will buy but not eat. ...

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