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I am thoroughly dying, inside and out, gushing words, then sentences, carefully, like the teeth of light that sag into the bed of darkness that surrounds a lamp, rejoining languages as if my mother were here, carrying my tongue like a spear, then separating them – “this word, then this, but never this” (there are also fevers in the lamp), now one word, barely even letters, each like pomegranate seeds, my hands are red, I can’t peel, I can’t peel.