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A city of dust, some radicals across the way. I want to know more about a slit and a hole.
Every night I dream of fathers, their bodies ferried away
into the far corner between sleep and waking.
Today I'm smoke up the chimney over ashes of trustand I don't see a Phoenix egg down there, do you?
Kenneth Anger’s Invocation of My Demon Brother, fifty years on.
The intimate reckonings of Jeannie Vanasco and Attiya Khan
The American myths that drove frontier expansion now support closing the borders