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122 SFUMATO The hummingbird eats what he weighs every five minutes for twelve hours if he sleeps and fucks the other twelve; consider he’s eating in flowers, his head deep in the fragrance our pheromonal sweat boutiques work up as disguise. And after his pigging, the hummingbird’s breath? Is he like—as we aren’t—honey taking on the tastes of its source, the smell? Was eating a banquet of hummingbird eating jasmine, a sfumato of living in brushed out limits of forms? & where do we put it all? ...

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