Palm of the HandI look down to see the lines running across my palm. No matter how many times I look, I'm always convinced that they are not the same one as I saw yesterday. I try hard to concentrate on them and make a map of them in my mind. It keeps jumping. Under the heat in this room, I close my eyes and I drift off. I think of a bird, down at the bottom of a pit. It flies up towards the fleck of light that hangs high above. I follow the bird, moving fast, and burst through into the lightness with it.
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