Angelhead

So she sat and she studied, poring over the scripts, skin-embedded. Laughing, back strained, with the immense pressure of the ribcage threatening to explode like a supernova, like a strenuous task for which there is no and will never be a catharsis. Like a Ginsberg fire that burns in every gas oven so that her hair is turned to destruction over the production of links and ties.

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