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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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