More and more, I agree: a forced decision
is not a true one. To fuck; to forgive. As if
the two were the same—no, as when they
are the same. The hawk is neither more nor
less worth praising for the fact that it kills than
for the elegance with which it does so. The nights
are long, here. Nowhere a torch. No beacons,
either. Distortion works the only way it can. At
once both a thing that blinds and a form of blindness.
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