there is a rawness that only reveals itself with a certain slanting of light or dissonance of the heart when a sound pierces through sleep so softly it tears at the dream’s seam, little silver fish deftly darting and swooshing into chasms without names, holes that narrow if not fed and diffuse with a maddening red that swells and beats to awaken the hold that slumbers beneath, crooning its echoes between the ears and slashing stars across the brain’s velvet it whispers to absorb the bloom like oil in a wound, the sweltering heat at the depths of the sea.

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