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The Ectopic (Poet?) Barely midnight. Things were going along about as expected, perhaps a bit more bleeding than I like to see – until your head fell off. Oddly, I did not wonder how that felt; did not consider a Mr. Potato Head consult; (would Barbie or Ken be an insult?) I sensed we were in for a long evening. Not that there was much else to watch on the monitor – but that little arm bent at the elbow as though stroking your belly in thought with the tiny ten all in a row: never to touch your toes or pick your nose beauty in death’s still life Then – a leaving caught us off guard, as down the corridor just past Room 19: The Bell Jar fell from a shelf, smashing into a shards littering the gleaming floor with unanswered questions. |
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