[Composition A, Piet Mondrian, 1923]


I  saw the squirt of paste that would shuffle in my mouth, those little flaps back there being lifted and cleaned and then the zzz of my mouth ahh and that face with the eyebrow, the single lash coming out, well, there it was, I just rubbed a couple of times and it was gone down the front of my shirt, the fragile curl a little to my collar bone even, geesh, god, getting longer and look at those twists from braids, the day in the city smelling and shaping like smacking cause it’s so authoritative, it takes over. And there’s my hair atwist and good and long, rushing to the ends, it seethes, it purrs back more. I get longer and longer till I reach


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