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JANE LEWTY PRAYER is how wings look, their terrifying stretch their miniscule blood–shift and that I should (almost) always be smiling. It is still a beginning, after all. I toss opaque globes in a general direction; they neatly roll back Clouded further. Where am I transcending to? Am I being uploaded? I was angling for a phone call re: paranoia. In answer to a question about offending pains, well, they say, time heals and saves. What about your acropolis, with its inner rooms to glide through– an agate–and–gold throne in the feast hall. Why so sad? Has the painfully–constructed sewage system failed again? Does the four –spoked chariot need a new battery? Is the new coffee from Trader Joe's a deep, cavernous disappointment? Or: do you need your grounds attended to (your home, your house, your grounds) by a sculpted being its wings ornate and rigid. We already have a problem: the legendary automata were designed to never age, but this PSM has a base frame from the 1970s. Regardless, 'devotional mode' unlocks a sleeping function. And I will be deviating far from factory settings. Let's observe the separation of earth and the waters. |