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A mist rises from a nearby mound. It could be me, that mist, or simply the caretaker’s mower-dust. If the breeze blows just right, I’ll ghost your solid, entwine your hair. Promise me you won’t shampoo, but carry me along, tiny dust-particles of me.
—
Chila Woychik, On Being a Rat and Other Observations
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death
metaphor
stream of consciousness
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