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the friend of the stock market, in

an alleyway, two blocks form

my loft, finds a steaming dumpster and

speaks to the contents inside.  The air

shapes into messages, spelling out words, words

speaking

prophecies.  the man waits until

he’s falling asleep and puts the words together.

Tomorrow, or maybe after decades,

there will words from the

friends, whispers, like vents

opening into the centre of the world.

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