March 15, 1998Let me forgetwhen the hanged manlooks in the window.Outside, the desperatespeak in a lost language.Let us in, they sigh,with the tongues of waterfalls.But you, out of breath,category of the misplaced;serial-killer of my days;while my left ventriclepumps the exact pressureof the universe . . .in spite of your default,with no substantial reason,I speak for youas though you are still here.We are arranged like that.A sad mistake, a Mendelbrot,a fractal glitch, a gift from zero.
-Ruth Stone
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