Writing for the writing, from cuadernos paralelos, snow lost with the lostness. For what talk of poets or signs interpreted for wanted figures. As was favored by the previous ruler, whose governing policy was power and its establishment in perpetuity (Ozymandias). We remembered those nine letters sentenced across the green hill, we'd driven parallel to its way, as well. It was written for us already in the novel, she'd spent the entire year working in the apartment with mountain views from the office and hall, with a typewriter, last of the moderns, anonymous, interviewed a few times in the fictional 1970s. A foreign past tense, wondering why they keep citing Kafka in its name. In prose the ghosts, who didn't have a city though it existed now book formed but tried to break a language never dropped. And losing sight of the outline.

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