The tall chimney ruffled seems as though it could collapse at this moment. Rough, sharp, something of it beyond language, the language that I write existing in the frame of things previously thought, the words an expression that I don’t take it for granted. Put there, standing there falling back on itself through itself like breath, like something simple. The words re-read each line moving away from and toward the ones that buffer it. The single tower made by today, the wind touching my left cheek and my chest, the dried heather around me and the voices, “Fucking hell, man!” the voices. The sound of the M32 disfigured and stretched by the distance the sounds which make me think of where they come from how they are positioned. The giggle which has a different colour from the answering voices and so moves me, differently taking me apart, differently.
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