feverishly writing and photographing the distance between us, bodies, moments of pleasure, bullets and flesh, whip tickling open old wounds, i ... i want to play hooky. click off my eye, as if it would never become a phantom appendage, strong limb now space once occupied, the ache for lost territory, an ache, dull and thudding, seeking recompense.

...

what does one do when worn down by dreamwork, layers of skin relentessly exacted by memory and thought and speech, until stripped so seemingly close to the bone?

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