weaving in, or weaving out of, the threaded tongue, missing and kissing each other's eyes, as if moving to the last village of twelfth - century indian.
the boys beset and throwned upon metal tinny trash receptacles, caste thine eyes upon dusty and oiled oceans, filled with toothy beasts.
there was a pencil message, magnified in the bottle of speech. you threw it out, to play alone on the sharpened beach, while we let the waves nab us and possess our histories.
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