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7 août
I write my aubade. To the moon on your back. Thus I probably come from somewhere. Assuming pronouns. Are places in space. The dilated kitchen. As everyone takes turns. Holding the joint to my mouth. I leave little Latif kisses on their fingers. And go on into the street. Like a tribe. The stone cathedral necromances the sky. He had explained it beautifully. He likes the subject. In the middle of an action.