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From the kitchens where the gas is kept / beloved are the blues shining my shoulder / old potholes . . .
For the first time in weeks, Gedney felt in complete control of his image. He let out another twenty yards, and then tied off.
We were, all of us, ethered
when the window broke. Soon after, the floor
The Clearasil staining Mark Twain’s hands can never be wholly scrubbed away.
The simultaneous release of the final season of Game of Thrones and Avengers: Endgame has wrought upon this. . .
From oil to sugar to bird crap—the long reach of American colonial power.