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May 13, 2004
Crisp encounters. There is a crunch in this smile. There is clarity in pupils. Imagine skin like taco shells, eyes like frail glass, voice like tissue paper. Feel it, crisp.

He makes me sneeze, like the sun. I want to shield my eyes, look down, cover my mouth when the sneeze actually comes so that I don't cough out my soul. Who catches the souls that escape?

Freeze me – or freeze you with medusa hair, snakes that wrangle with air and turn a face to stone. It's who I will become, seclude madwoman, afraid to look, cold to who's looking.