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I descend from names and images and sounds and collateral senses, adopted and given, nothing extraordinary. Substantial omissions in this archive are yet to be investigated once my portrait here has been represented. Here I shall helplessly deprive them of sounds and all senses and in turn lay claim to whatever ideographic gifts or mishaps they may offer me.
Here I shall disenthrall my friends from the myth of childhood innocence, not with the obvious tools represented in dropping salt on snails or blowing up the hornet nests. Yes, I have suckled the nectar off the lanky flower about whose name I care not, and yes, I have skimmed the stale cow pies to explore their essence. Yes, I'd known there was something fishy about certain mushrooms, tabula rasa style, and no, I did not ignore the mole-heaps. Yes, there have been muddy midsummers in Algreq, and no, I have not washed my sandal.
Into the petty Mediterranean maladies, at and of the moment, I'm seeing myself on film. I'm uniting the stifling montage at hand, dissolving into those nitrates of light, rolling; I'm trying unaware my first steps and I'm panicking, a mute panic. "Get me out of here!" I seem to be telling with my taps my parents. "Get me out, let me out. I did not ask for this! Oh, wait. This seems to be rather harmless. But why are you smiling?" And I keep on walking the different strides.