I feel inbred from the sun, like it knows my frame too well, if it looks too directly at me. This moistens, as others may notice it in me. We live on flat land, and the ground dances with the torture of all the dead, ours to behold, the comedic kaleidoscope of all those lives meaningless. Our dinners come one after another, and our dogs eat like kings, the gizzard prophets of the TV guiding us buoyantly into the night, whose freeze readies itself for the guilt of victory.

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