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107 A line of skewered sea horses steaming to transparence in a dented pan faceted bodies the size of a finger profiles tiny as if carved with a pin each death described by the tight or loose curl of a tail in the quilted jacket that marks a villager a man tends them smoke from his cigarette swallowed by the quick blooms of steam he turns the sticks his thumbnail black and peeling an injury from the other life people passing don’t imagine he has more and more these days it slips even his mind in the delicate tea-colored darkness infused with neon Street Food in Beijing karina borowicz ...


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