Sometimes the nights smell softly of wet paint while an album I remember from the days before freedom plays in the background. That's the only time now when an animal faith in the length of my bones is enough. Too often I find myself looking into the wrong parts of people's eyes.
And in any case, the pitter-patter of certain feet isn't to be heard in these parts again, thanks to the tearing of membranes too fragile to be seen. I think of the story "The Veldt," and how the walls come alive--how there are lions on the other side of all of our walls. I'm not sure what the gaps in our skin are meant to tell us, but if we don't concatenate correctly, you and I, we might combust.
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