. . . & how, o spirits, shall I invoke you, who cannot count himself among the chosen? My writings & keenings are interior & treated by appropriate prescription drugs, to whom my conversion is incomplete, for some days I devote myself solely to my dead & in my error I do seek them & do wail. From the wire mesh I glimpse the chalk marks, aflicker on a kind of slate. Here is the glyph of patchouli-smell, graven on a scarf or silken dress. & here the character for a chin nicked while shaving, stubble edging a dime-sized birthmark, . . .
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