WHERE I AM/HAVE BEEN our decisions are so small they can be scratched on paper where my pen touches its shadow memories crop up a house ruins itself I stand at the door and knock for no reason--no matter how closely I listen who would say enter are you with me we are here or rather on my way by means of travel whose end I cannot know when I began I wanted to write beautifully later it mattered less one thing can be offered for another ruins for words memory for beauty trespass for come in
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