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I long ago excised them, the femoral, jugular, aortal. Arteries too big, too central, too important to any longer hold meaning.

We can’t take meaning, now, you say. If we can, it’s only at the rate of one astronomical unit per galaxy, one atomic fission per fire, one spouse per siphon, one child per grave.

Now I pump my blood with lesser, more working-class veins, roads so small they lack description on any map.

O, internet. O, Facebook quest for three-dimension.

My life has been telling me something, and it is this: I will have to give up the lesser veins, too. The aerioli, the tiniest of freeways.

I am a deliverer of nothing to no one never.

If you wait, you will meet silence.
If you meet silence, you will meet sound.

Seven billion anatomically correct dolls cannot be wrong. And if they could, it wouldn’t be about this. I know your life. I’ve lived it.

O, virtual quest. O, pretension. I am only in the audience.