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We move each other's pencils, what's grown too late to speak in proper sentences. Small birds, then. Feathers fanned -sotto vocce- utterance -coo of pinhole light- of milk spilling across paper stripped of dialect, crude grammars too severe to simply erase. If the counter weight of doubt isn't merely the scent of belief then the photograms of eviscerated rabbits is also the story of jubilation. Exposed to light, death commingles, holds on as if it was built on little more than a comma.