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Chokebore

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Chokebore

Lives Like Satellites

What controls the plague?
The low hum, the low hum. Angles are the flashbulb burst. Tiny little shivers of rain.
If you look high enough you'll see us. Her skin is dipped in atoms. I'll never look at her the same.
It comes down to beautiful fingers that speak for themselves.
They talk to me. They say they are milk.