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May 10, 2019
We pour ourselves into a forming passion, a misshapen body no one wants in their house, created in the dim past. Most houses are free of passions, excluding passions commensurate with the looped voice bellowing from rusted loudspeakers worldwide, set up to infect the listless to nothingness. The mold does its job. It carries off the designs with effortless elan. How we're to find ourselves once the form matures within us is a loose question, best left to the alleyway drunks that might have the courage to tango. We keep to the rituals printed out in leaflets. Best that way.