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64 No more dying then I’ll write mother a tale, tell her the timid, moody redbirds still live in your hair, and that the maps carved into trees are still in place to guide her to the house on legs, the good one. Tale is a world of condition: hazy stirrings, nascent threats in the air and the cutup body reconstructed by wish. No more trap, designated or fated. No more dying inside, figurative or real. No more pathos. The city would fill me. The escape would revive me. ...

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