A hunger to be small as a scrap of light, warmingstrangers without being seen, to be lost in the crack between cobblestones, in the sliver of space between lovemaking bodies, to be nothing more concrete than the exhalation of dust from a book. The urge to be obliterated and yet held on the surface of the skin: this is the paradox of the oppressed.
-Sondra Charbadze
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