THE READER the pages I turn sketch some fictitious heart made stranger chapter by chapter whatever had been intended by whoever wrote it my voice reading alters and if by chance I turn two pages instead of one my throat and tongue draw out some sense despite all that troubled syntax all the syllables forcing their way past my lips and periods and commas stuttering and fishhooking me forward are bound to leave a few marks on me that are true which I can disregard the rest are fictions I can rely on more
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