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My mind is all overgrown grasses littered with rabbit innards, fox shit and the memory of stars. Memories of James by the window, sad and silent, with a demon sleeping inside his head. Stuck under the membrane between bone and synapse. Self and un-self drinking water from an abalone shell. He only spoke of westerns and of love in the sunlight, and at night he spoke of the sickness in himself. A rot in the heartwood. Coals dressed in soot. I sometimes rode the train in endless loops through the sporadically lit bowels of the city while strangers smiled across the stretch of tracks like lunatics, falling in and back out of love. They gave me his wallet before they buried him. I took the photos out, buried them in the spaces we keep secret from ourselves, and ate what grew above.