thanks, Kate. ——————————————— (transl.) In the basement of the Society for Tautology they found a completely dead murdered corpse of a body without any signs of life.

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the small places we come from

wind scoops handfuls of coloured leaves and carries them up towards the pure indigo of the maple-lit autumn; they glow in lamplight, as the quarter-moon cuts a triangular window across the clouds, and then remain somewhere there, big stones in the endless river of sky. the small places we come from, little more than so […]

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apple memories

skeins of geese calling, mingling over fresh-rent potato earth, your hands, bruised from too much mechanics pick up another one the crate full of fragrances almost unliftable; memories enter and leave like the birds of flight swooshing through the air.

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