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I started reading an epistemology text and now I am just sitting around thinking about indirect realism and how one’s own body is an external world.

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To stay the magistrate

lean into this world or the next. I need the flesh of my body

for favors, my fill

to die, to slowly die, your body the hole,

hair dingy as if white trash

meth, she’s on limbs, cramps, potatos. I

let myself cry hard jogging the Barrio.

 

– Shelly Taylor