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1 Dear Reader This constant plumbing of the spirit— like living in a mine making a study of cave-ins. What thrives down there doesn’t need eyes, just electrified skin, super-touchy body that’s one big ear. A pebble’s prevarication is a mariachi band, whisper your own name, it’s a warning screamed. I don’t think I’ll be back soon, not that I was ever here. Too often we are left to piece together the sensibility wounded by such perceptions, someone burying an animal not oft interred, someone persisting with an absurd hat, the steady reduction of the story to the sentence, syntax to end-stop, punctuation to New Year’s Eve bash in a black hole. Care for an organ donation? A moonshine absolution thins to demoted Pluto glow, one shadow kicking another’s ass. Be we just passing figments in this waterhead world or is there hope that you and I may leave some trace more permanent, scarlet, tooth-marked, at least upon each other’s heart? 2 ...

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