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To Christopher Barnes's previous piece
Refuge Too-tight shoes. This morning I had fried bread with cold coffee. The grease inside of me is hardening. I found a room for plain speaking, case notes hanging insensible in the waft, soughing from the air-conditioner. Under a thumb, the jaundiced ink of my name tape sunbathed in the lustre pushing its weight around at the blinds. Mr. Fix it hit it, refresher coursed through it then vapourised into the backswept corridor. My name was swapped for this number but it doesn't live, it doesn't even seem to recognise me.
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