Connor Stratton


We have spoons two, which is, to that. There is a certain run-on of sharp, you not saying you only eating, but perhaps remembering when you thought fantasy fiction could save you when poetry could save you when philosophy when gender studies when conversation could save, when an exact syntax but so save so, when a new name, a better name, a letter just phoneme could savior, indeed yet from the go you perceive the world as forked and fucked and this language (which you have been tonguing into a polish these many years) does not reflect hope. Survival rather. Careful more study on which enumerated ways the world will most finest hate you with insistence, so to that. The soup on the lips is good. You trust me for my ear, though bowls root and stem from the hand. Here, a lamp sounds orange upon spoons, one.

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