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I neither sing the body electric nor do I stand by my atlal,
My Madeleine is a legstuffed chickenskin roast sending me back and forth onto beings attached to no superlatives though I perceived perfectly the firsts and lasts;
I visit my portrait each reading with a different text
like Fellini's camera, sliding away from the vitelloni and Roma
My certainties are limited to self-love and complete absence of regret.
Now I won't share a story
to prove a point or mark my territory:
This is a changing text I would be visiting its parallels to their certain end and we may find a body electric or atlal
we may not.