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S TA L L E D The boy sees Man coming up soon. He stalls. You hold the gate open, you curry. You google the weather, hie sandwiches. The analysts are all a Go. The significance of you magnifies, fault and catalyst, tit and boot. You can do no wrong, no right. The mystery is love, not fear. The horse loves you so much. No. The unconscious loves itself, preservation, the Latinate for life, must be invoked in this stall, this je refuse, as autistic as that. Not the three-year-old’s sudden loss of words but a skewed wariness, possible probable repetition of fear, a kind of death. Man arrives anyway, strides out of the perspective, the trap set for us all. You could be wrong about that too, he says. The horse let itself out. 58 ...

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