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A pen against the force-field of reflex. Rapid weather. Old wounds. The tasks of air. Apart from sex, a lucky charm in someone else’s pocket. The hands of biologists. Around the waist, presence is attenuated and the past shows through.

Many aptitudes such as shooting never reach a high degree of perfection until the necessary movements are carried out unwittingly. Blind graft on kneejerk. Taste of nothing in the mouth. The concept of death slides down the barrel. The cement takes on consistency.

How to stretch involuntary muscles as far as the Mediterranean when the reflexes reach such marvelous complexity in damp climates. She wanted to mend his clothes. Eat steamed dumplings. Hear music in the middle of a clearing. Age in the female voice, moved by the richness of what exists. Ends of yarn. Pebbles. Bus tickets. Plenty of animal forms.

Reverse punctuation. Repressed instinct never ceases to strive for the perfect dividend. Muddy boots. The tone of flexor muscles pricks no ear. The vigilance with which the higher neural levels activate tattered maps. Where time runs back on itself with sufficient distance we advance into the buried incomprehensible. They wrote in knotted threads suspended from small sticks. Midden splendor warped with silence.

A ball of thread equals solution. Animal hair, leaves, pods. Woven sun. The compulsion to repeat stored in a closet. He concentrates on his socks. Thrust himself into her surprise. Inextricably. The needle moves through the labyrinth, the pen across voltage levels. Ways of knitting the world, surreptitious news in the air. And almost walking on it.