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May 19, 2019
I have a potato chip in my hand, but it could be a nuclear bomb, a vital piece of forgotten history, a religious text, a rock, the missing link between me and the missing link or the desiccated brain of my mother. I could be in this hole called my room with opulent walls made of ruby and opal, sitting on a diamond commode taking a crap of enormous proportions. This is where I am, this is where I'm not. I divide the contrast and blend it into a mixture where you ad I might have a glass of sky