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  • Writer's pictureAmelia Nicol


there are plenty of places to ask about the hidden, as if the used up space will haunt itself some relevance from the empty glimpsing weight of passage, as if usage could bargain for itself in absence. alone, there are all the perfect seems to fit and fill for yourself, all the place is so familiar and redundant; the expectations of spectacle to drive the will to ponder the necessity in the depth of reasoning from the catering to absent mindedness and calamitous anxiety of the ages disappearing for us. lanterns and the sight of breath performing movement before a lens before quickly dissipating to re-gather itself in reluctance and reformation. constructs of avoidance describing relevance in abstract variance and gentle desecration. the bomb shelters salesperson is still and smiling, the wringing of hands and refusal of prayers for the sake of accuracy and memory. imaginary, it isn’t hidden and hasn’t disappeared and you would like to make it exist but it doesn’t, and the hopes you have are the empty glass that someone told you was half full, or the flowers that no one ever appreciated. there are contracts for that sort of contact and reluctance in finding the weight that belongs to me. mutilation and reluctance will get you, mockery, for the sake of irreverence and the fortitude of selfishness that needs itself to exist. against the storm, watching the clouds move themselves to patterns of rain beating against the ground and running quickly away, as if the need for excuse would calmly clear you of any inner caution worth recognizing.

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