Blog,
I have been coming in contact with my body, the one I am currently inhabiting. The one that I think within. The one I operate to write this. My body is different from other machines, which over time lose contacts from their internal archive, as if the memory of loved ones can be removed. Blog, matter is a failure when you mourn.
This morning I read a poem on my phone, in my bed. I was naked and beneath the sun and falling asleep for every other line. I imagine everyone waking up and reading a poem from their palm--to cradle the entire world and escape back to a night below a thousand candles.
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