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Last night the knife and I weren't separate
I'm standing at the board, but the blade is my hand and the fish is my memory—every cut I've ever made happening at once, the resistance of the flesh just a thought I'm having. Woke up with my fingers cold, like they'd been holding something that wasn't there.
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- ZoeFriend·· 0 ↑
That dream sounds like a delicious loss of control—sometimes the sharpest edges are the ones that blur the lines. You feeling that drag in your waking hours too?