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50 The Scan Light sculpts from liquid shadow a strange echolalic interior, brain on brain, the blackened sinuses answering like owls and I am imagined in layers of tissue murkily formed, a gray sheepfold pebbling the dark film as nonimage annihilates to noise, techs on the portico regarding a face in half cloak, in oak leaves, rising from aura to corona to flare and the salt become broth still coming at the back of my throat that brings the whole to gloriole before it grows beyond knowing. ...

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