Facing GodCami Park
What do I have to say for myself? I have neither words, nor the common sense he gave me. I hold out my hand and he takes my palm, scowling at his fractured script, the hand of a careless doctor. He releases me, grunts. Do I have any feedback for him? my palm is blank like fields after snowfall like lies told to children after death I tell him well, patriarchy sucked, so fuck you for that. And evil, did that have to be so damned banal? But music, I tell him, music, that was good. And colors, too. I liked colors.
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