it was a cuckoo clock that was the pride and joy of her life. a made in switzerland unoriginal - but originality escaped the grasp of this cubic space. the invalid burgeoning from the center of the room above atmospheric pressure.
it was the way the non-existent eyelashes had somehow left scar marks on the underside of her eyes that made me stare while she was sleeping from
the cube within a cube where i lived and dreamed for intervals marked by that faint mechanical twitch.
bald bulbous eyes that liquified with love, the veinous twist of wrists
the bare bones that lobotomize the night
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