26.1.09

A TAXONOMY OF LONELY SOCKS BEGINS HERE/THE FIRST OF WHICH IS MY FATHER

Törless fondles the Kant volume, the weight of it good, amassing the excesses to the cheek, accounting for the flesh in the mass. Black and white make good, sit good and quiet, when the inhale-exhale metronome marks the time lurch. The favoured crayon was cobalt, and yesterday the most livid sunset, raging blush, a black river, a house hung with paintings i hate, paintings i painted. She learns to avoid a certain room, wears the wrong shoes, drapes the body’s heavy blush to carefully avoid a white, waiting for the heat to change. She learns to bury the face with blankets, and in the heat lost many socks. She learns to bite her tongue baretoothing the signature forge. She learns to ignore the too much flourish in the wrist flick of another woman’s autograph.

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