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 a f i t t i N g P l a c e i’m nostalgic for where i’m not and sometimes have never been: granadan windows, battlements, places of which strangers smell— born nostalgic as if here had been a mistake, born by mistake and so disoriented everything would be strange until i’m somewhere stranger. i don’t think my genes entertain the same nostalgias but on this they do agree: this is not the place, you are not the one, and i am not here, there or between, but in a hell of a bad fit. ...

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