No, look, as I create a memory. Tickle my own synapses until the image appears, provoked. Here I am trying to wrap my arms around a giant bucket made of glass, perfection. Amphibians inside appear regal as fuck. I’m flinging feelings of arousal around and around the rim, a ledge. I do not yet believe in my age. So I jump into the mirage refraction of my own body, bared, a toddler, L’Enfant, face-first, all my life, when I’m not looking. The blemish-less glass is now hilarious in a purely dissonant way but a stranger believes I’m merely a happy baby. Sit me on the dryer. Let it shake until I fall, sleeping in an invisible cocoon!


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