Octave (1)

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“Dusk made a jazz of stars is a the’d kaleidoscope from initial the” translated itself into an octave clef trying to translate the sound of what he didn’t know a sunset was to a blackboard. It looked like the ouroboros of a canto craved fixity to knead the thought that sunlight had to hijack the jet black, so he put Ajax in the chalk. He laughed at how erased, inverted, seared noir into the. But a sun never appeared. “I make what mouth is moving,” he laughed, & when he laughed, he saw the hot fugue of his lung unhinge in the ice-cold air. He said, “hello lung, you’re the can’t of a mirror become.”