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A yellow plastic ball rolls against K’s (side of foot). Thick plastic ball,
as if only round and no air. K is not sure why this ball is rolling over the floor.
There is no dog no child. As if
it is floating. Perhaps sliding. And the floorboards
solid but slant. K pushes back slightly, slow, deliberate, a move in a board game,
pawn takes queen, must have happened. Seldom.

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He rolls over his bed, slowly and quickly, diagonally, like an unseen rollercoaster
curve. Expected but cannot prepare. Arms stretched eyes open and serious lips slightly
parted and face still and cold and threatening give. A figure stares at him, it could be
one of several. He feels different sensations pass between them. An alchemy of fear
and stone in varying measures, to create, a minimal tension, junior Jedi’s.

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A wave for one moment only one wave. And then again the many. A Japanese print
has a big wave with in it small waves with in them smaller waves with in them smaller
waves, or how many? So this one wave. It rolls breaks, rolls, dissipates, into new waves.
She pictures herself inside of it. There is a gap, then, speed, wall of wind, current,
intersecting sheets of pressure. Now she is inside this wave. Heavy wetness
panic breathing. It is a different and the same wave.

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Silk white sheet slides over a vast bed. King size bed 2×2. Travels slowly nearly over     edge
of this giant bed. Partly draped, ending, partly on floor, draped. A Magnum-white
curtain ends in folds barely on a white marble window sill. A sheet of ice.
The size of France (or what, Tanzania, Niger, Chad?) a crowd of people from afar,
like penguins odd with colour and odd movement, gathered, on. A grainy white
mist, milky like a cloud penetrates a wall of light, like sunlight but it is white      and everywhere,
resting on the world, the, object things, seeps through also the world,
sun-window,         water-sieve,            wind-sheet,                 sheeting-scaffolding.

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In a plain barren. Plane. With movements seldom only, sudden, not from corners
for there are none, but in corners of eyes maybe if there are eyes, distances from
each other at least. Predators? Never in herds. Solitary on their way to death, flight,
indiscernibility.  Weeds, rustle, shifty eyes, if there are eyes. And a flag, torn, faded
red. In the wind. A wall of sound as if a misthorn, or a steam-train. An ancient moment
happens.          Pressing into this   already palimpsest present

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