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LA | NY A Special Edition of The East Village
A BUTTERFLY'S TONGUE Capable of being born, now the heat is inconsistent. I want to please you today or him the next day. My next durable plot can deepen and extend, I lost an uncle the other day and now my father is the only one left. I feel left too because I over-identify with being a calf, a calf hidden in the lawn. Capable of producing corrosion or blue milk. We find coincidence alluring, intriguing mystical to our fated drabness, so we don't wear perukes anymore, but what of mild or serious pneumonia -- my mother had it when I was born, so prickly I was, a sheep with coarse wool, a cap to hidden possessions, oh my dear family is too stubborn for gifts and miniature problems. Onto insects and lacerated wings. I tell them I've lost friends, and is it hereditary? We can't be sure, and no, we aren't really sure. Capability, is it the same as mutability? A magic number was what I lived by, yet physiology and nutrition seemed more accessible but less interesting a food. What internal cell pressures do we have to guide our insides, does this make us truly private, a chemical pensive part, misleading the family to clauses, to pinnacles. From earth to home to domestic grievances, what power is it to deal misunderstood cards to everyone? It will feel powdery and untrue all at the same time, so what of it, what kind of self-portrait can I have?
Prageeta Sharma Index