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40 . . . The flies cleaning their multiple eye glass squeaky clean to bring into focus the unsighted corpses of combatant visions: a sound that hits the chalked nerve— bone echoes. Flies know how clean each vision thinks its view yet no one can see out of the pair of them; none see both summit and valley’s start from stood eye level’s post. But they all fall. Some try see not so multiple of one’s own view as to regress insect be lost humanity facing opposing mirrors both faces of war their view ripped into its infinite regressions— multiple eye. And that sound— he cried at the crossroads the buzz chalked across his middle ...

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