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33 Pithy Reflections of Common Machines There she was dragging the new world back into the old one, one street periscoping into another, what do you mean, blinding the men with how she held her dress above the water, under a parasol, when the gaunt face of reason promenaded through a cloud like a gray man, having done nothing with life, brushing aside his gray hair somewhere where the tile purse becomes a funhouse floor you carry in this way and hide your money in, and the jewelry rack becomes the wire-frame blueprint of a scarecrow—whom no crow was stupid enough to alight on, so finally he took his own life—and she adds that the man appears in horrible condition: someone’s screwed his head onto his neck and muscle protrudes without thinking from bone as if it plans to lift a thing or carry forth the body, which has no major error in its legs and eyes have been inserted in the eyeholes by a hidden hand, so sometimes we’d sit down in the in-between times and sometimes we’d walk out and retrace the circle, bedroom to office, through which a wallet could fit, through which a child and so much for our loitering, the pomegranate tassel said, one street becoming another, a gray man who brushes aside his gray hair. ...


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