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July 22, 2016
The speed is in my mouth. I race to its idea. My head spins to a stark stillness. The edge of my intention sharpens to a razor glare in the icy sun of my mind rising over the horizon, finally rising to its inevitable zenith. I hold the speed in my mouth. I keep it still to itself, as it spins, as it whirls, as it does what it does to keep me alive in its speed. The speed afixes me to its stillness. I cannot explain it. It is nothing to be explained. I must never open my mouth.