* * *
We want space to behave in a way that is much easier to observe.
It’s cribbage we’re playing. I’m planning an attack on the illness of love.
Nothing is a stranger coming near.
Dopamine wards off intruders; into your heart a science grows cold.
When a box is coated in duck-tape, it locks in the light.
If it leaks out,
history goes, an image is lost.
There is nothing in the eye-of-the-beholder.
I am running with a baby in my arms, towards a memory.
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