Trying on the elephant of life is like vibrating your lips on a kind of
trilled r sound backward; you contract, or expand exponentially as if expanding
has been assigned you, until ever so slowly, or quickly, you're squeezed
into the absence between two pauses - an absence not extrinsic but key,
an absence of truth- so that in spite of everything you ring in the open
sky, you ring like a bell as mirrors break around you and the bubble bursts
you are free air escaping air escaping
shmoetry
Surrealism
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