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Morbidly I return to the lost past, its dead possibilities. What’s this like? It’s like being strangled by the phantom limbs of a fictive squid. Things that never could have been press in on the present, squeeze it ungently and suddenly the oppressive, early August heat is howling. There’s the beak, clack clack. There’s no slobber underwater, but I think it’s dripping anyway. And the clacking probably isn’t so much like the sound my fist makes, wrapping on this table, as the echoing drone of a hammer on a drum full of liquid. Metallic thrum, metallic thwang. Loss and things that never could have been and other ways to abuse hope. Cold eye, big eye, hungry eye. How many eyelids do squid have? What does it see? Blink.

 

 

 

 

Categories: Asides.

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