A Green Lion Bites the Sun in the face an old man holds out his hand. The nearby newspapers, the linen on the daybed remained unsigned. My heart-rate doubled while this happened, yet the glow was not caused by my sweat. Should I have been sent to the front? Or deemed unfit for service? I hear their thoughts with my fingertips. I rap out codes for tomorrow. My size makes no difference at all. The old man burned beyond recognition simply doffed his body and rose. His fingers remained in the grate. Ask him who he is. (His size makes no differnce either.) Now tell me who I am. The document remains unsigned.
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