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This issue features 10 pages.

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Suddenly my body is no longer worthy of defining its own mechanics. What do you call this– a laughing bone or clattering instrument? This is a necklace or clavicle. It is also center. The center of a body is a hole that one enters. I am asymmetrical. A rounded object will roll off my shoulder. This skin is yellow—its pigment is yellow—but under a dozen bodies, I am a black shroud. I have not stopped moving because if I stop I will have to answer all your questions. I am not from here. My mother is a landslide. My father—a boulder. Two hands. Two feet. They go upward and sometimes passing through a body.


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