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She says that the top of

the mountain is nice and the political

context is incendiary and the deepest desires

of the angels are written in latin and not in

the wind that you control.  You pour her

a drink and ask which country

she came from, which war she is

running away from.  You hold up the

walls of scarves, but she says that

it isn’t  enough, so you both drink

and drink and get sick at your birthday party.

Spewing political ideas over top

of linguistic ideas, forming bold new

features of technological ideas.  She’ll miss

her past and the vibrations

that it came with.

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