HAMLET.
To be,
as you know,there are more questions than that
and they loom over your head and into the fine stretch of night where
your father wanders. Sometimes he is a question and sometimes he is
an assumption, but either way his presence finds the means to burn, so
you suppose that things could be narrowed down. A void that curls around your
head
the color of dried blood.
Your tongue tucked into the corner of your mouth,
and other stories.
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