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on the other side of the

pacific beach there are shiny pebbles on

the shore.  The gems are not specific

colours, but instead they resemble

blue and brown irises, moving from

generation to generation, filling voids of

culture, spilling green, arranging notation as

the sea swims up on the

shore.  You, my daughter, pick one up and

mimic it’s symbolic

potential, pretend that we’ve been

engaged in the recent past, but

you can’t remember

further than your bed time, you don’t know

where you’ve come from or what

it means to hold your breath until

there is asphyxiation and how boring

it all can become.  When I get home,

I ask your grandma for

dessert, but there isn’t any left and

we don’t tell you that cookies were

even an option.

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