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The Dig
Something is talking, inside in the dark. Where the light should play, run. Something is chattering, shivering to snatches, fragments, bawled imperatives, self-collapsing mono-dia-logues, bitter codes of want and regret. Alone. So dark alone. Ah, my spectre, I presume? No, Spec-tar-e, back out vibrates echo’s shout. Each syllable sacred, each distinct. Aum, holy man. I am. I am. Wholly wholly man. Can prove. Spectare ripples out, inside in the dark. Flows. Where the light should. Spectare self-love loves self, self inside its self hides, inhabits. Aboriginal. Language of ceramics, dropped in mud villages. Slow unburials, shards of storage and ritual. Earth-dark timefold strata; ruined vernaculars of being.
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