outwait outrun outwit


an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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Although weary, I stay quick on my feet; I have no home, no place to rest for long, and I will not have one for the next three itinerant months.

I live out of tiny suitcases and boxes stacked in a crowded borrowed room. I can't find this or that and I must improvise all the time. I live without and I'll get used to it. This perfume or that scarf is all I need, and as long as I am healthy and hard-working, everything is okay, even awesome at times. I am okay because my wealth are my friends, generous and grand and wise.

What is past, dishes and photos and connections--the membranes that connected his life to mine--will become dead skin, but pale dry flakes that drift and fly from this new shiny soft one.

Touch me, I am tender.


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