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13 Dear Suburb, Some blunt hammering set me off, that and the teeth of a saw. I left behind my sweater, the remains of a sandwich, my camera, some paperweights, my lament. I left behind a few weak coals I’d blown alive. This happened somewhere off one of your forgotten roads, just past a farm stand where customers leave a little corrugated shed with the smell of rotting corn silk in their clothes. The important fs are focus, flatness, and frame. If your billboards peel, if the gaze is really dead, then what are those remaining fields to you—are they the clothing of thought, or the mirror of thought, or just thought’s sleeping sheets? ...

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