outwait outrun outwit


an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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08.14.04, saturday night

This week I held a three-week-old baby. It had the face of a very old man who does not remember his first kiss & thus very surprised by kisses.

I didn't know how to properly hold the child; it squirmed in my arms as if unused to its rapidly changing body, the scent of a stranger. I felt as if I held a beginning. His beginning.

Excuse me for calling him it. Everyone kept correcting me: he, he, he. Like a song about laughter.


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