on the floor i had thought about bare skin maps drawn in permanent ink connecting the constellations on your pale forearms. but you keep your sleeves down, and so i keep the ink in my pen.
“Where am I? Who am I? How did I come to be here? What is this thing called the world? How did I come into the world? Why was I not consulted? And if I am compelled to take part in it, Where is the director? I want to see him.”
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