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Tweeting the Midnight Line A seer, enduring the watcher’s flowing face: be grateful, be grateful. Ear where the sheet of marble buckles. She taught herself what is to come – origami animals on a boat. Those people working, nauseated. Nobody should experience anything they don’t need to. Her feelers take the pulse of the house: matted fur in the elbow of a couch, the tipped branch made into the house. Her metallic eyelashing, and a certain sound – the satellites. The quiet they make for each other. Crouching wood, washed-up necks held straight by something without being the equestrian statues. 38 ...

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