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Friday, September 12, 2003

Eiko. A review of bluster; Koma and 

bluster. Wind rushes in from the river; my ear fills with
others. I have the right of way at an intersection; I worry that I should give more time to
PICA. They wear fine clothes; I must be near
crying. Black water spreading; I hear a child
full. A system circulates beneath the performance; the center is empty then
laments. The sountrack is playing; a baritone
critic. I stand behind a smooth head; I think he is a well-known
speaker. White water under round grate; white noise in round
arms. An acquaintance looks friendlier; he holds an androgynous person in his
muscles. They move in slow segments; I feel my
uncertainty. They clap politely; sound is held back by
sky. On the margin is construction; twin skeletons stretch into the
air. And they couldn't breathe; they had no
charge. "I got 'em," said the woman in
cognoscenti? How do you pronounce
normally? There are people wondering things; how does it flow
over. An old friend points to the lights; a boundary no one can cross
closer. They could not penetrate the crowd; he literally wanted to move

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