I have learned to blink instead writhing smoothly in the blackened air of movie theaters or alone past midnight, silent on the public bus the spit vision of clotted trees rushing on to know the arcs at the base of my neck a means to take my mind off things the fact that guard rails look the same in Spain and I am left to bear up in worn train cars through the blistered heels of mountains, of Alps with my weaker version struck by the constant and rising impulse to just turn it off turn it off turn it off turn it off TURN IT OFF
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