“Exile is ultimately what a gaoler calls freedom, and we are far too often our own prisoners.”
Nicholas Osiowy contemplates
One by one, friends gloved their hands and got to work; my ridged, lumpy canvas morphing and shifting, follicles taking on new forms every fortnight.
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what it is to become a dream.
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The mountains will bare themselves and our hands will receive.
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As hard as I try to remember, from no part of my being can I summon a reason for me being here.
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