a note on Not Smoking I don't smoke anymore and the corridors are filled with rust and glue, are hampered with Macy's perfumes and a rush of geometrical anklets in expensive antique plastic. I don't smoke and the thighs and wings appeal to me. I don't smoke, I don't have a face or any hair. I don't smoke on my own in the dark. How much I don't smoke or lift my hands like that. God knows and ignores me and sends me to Spanish Mass. Oh God, I don't like it. I work out not smoking every morning and itch after shaving, I think, because I quit like this. I need to smoke and yet I refuse. I refuse everything that is shining and lost. My smoking and me: our death together on the cool blue carpet. It is night and there is plenty of work waiting. A windy gymnasium of things to do. My apartment is made of old wood and pink chairs. It is deperate. The shower is orange, it is like a title for something really good. I don't even give up what I hate. It is all shelved or folded or underneath something shelved or folded. Hamstring of me at night. Tube of sleep. People I love all night touching my face and my back. A will in the paper flowers of the first sound. In the pushed out light: the gold no of going.
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