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There is much waiting, contemplating of before in inertia to the now in eternity, and much gnawing on ideas without substance; sustaining me not. I am on a conveyor belt of electric tape in feuds of grey that moves in spurts blistered and bumped with the quotidian examinations of 3/5ths a man as chattel. Say naw! Read my letters and tell me can you see below their surface seraphim curvature. My life’s red warm fluid talks often about its worries that go beyond sinew and marrow into spirit. And it worries as it courses through the myriad channels and brooks of my thin limbs to tell me this, that and of Grandmas cellular memory of what it was when she made a way before me; even not knowing I was to be born.

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