She takes her language off, & then she takes the words off language, her, undresses them, undoes them of their sensible layer of preservative; infuriating image behind transparent something inside/outside. She tramples on their naked bodies, tiny beings, squirming, crisply, beneath her feet, like ants or what? Her words do not at all mind being trampled on, she sits in them, with hands on knees; the broken pieces of her alphabet crawl up her body; rest sometimes on her skin, & disappear into her holes of skin & cavity. She is unsure about her situation. sometimes she gasps & cries, but never with the sense & meaning, always with the burbles & the sighs. Her broken language is her blanket & her itch, it keeps her warm & cools her off & makes her twitch.  & for her words & syllables she has become a spacious habitat, no longer throwing them around & pointing them at things like spears & flaccid dicks. Her people, the ones she knows, put her away, but they speak gibberish. They send her to a big square building, in a woods; with white & with around it trees of wood & silver lines. She does no longer find her way out of the woods, her building where she dwells, is made of squares, disappearing, white, into each other; a square building into a door into a floor of square, into a square of tiled squares, into a bathroom square of square glass cabin, into the white square tiles like line the floor & hallway walls, & in the rooms, her room, paper on the wall with squares of white, made from horizontal lines with then a hint of vertical; & when her showerhead is square, but sometimes into the sink or toilet bowl, she hangs her head, she droops into where, here, there are the curves & she, sometimes, she hangs her head & stoops her body, for hours first, then hourly, into a patch of curves,

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