Such Things As Are, Loving

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     The mirror reveals him trembling. Perhaps there is no illusion in any of it. Eliot and Artaud are banging down the sunlight; Whitman’s hair is flowing from a flower pot by the French door. Claire sleeps. He leans into the mirror and exhales deeply, fogging his face into a cloud, and begins to float into the air. 

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Koen Holtkamp - Field Rituals by _type