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Becoming A Corpse I am floating just under the surface. Grey pruned hands dance under waves. Past the tunnel of faded light I sense your fingertips. A casual touch to see if I am still here, drowning slowly like a fish whose gills have forgotten how to work. If you happen to think of it pull me up.

I am out of air


SPIRACLE JOURNAL Volume I Issue No. 1  

Re. In. Vent.

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