I am a pond made of teeth and wise hair. I am a factory where men draw faces on paper plates all day long, black ink for stubble, lots of little black lines. Here is my face. I am eating off of it in a room the size of an airplane hangar. I move a piece of toast and there is my fake eye. I have a piece of bacon and there is my triangle of a nose. The factory itself does nothing but spill red smoke from its yellow eyes. Meaning: the dead have no idea who is feeding them. Yet they keep being fed, over and over. The end of each brings a new kind of starving. The hunger is another factory. It builds itself.
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