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“Within her there seems to be a rattling; from little stones, from stalks, from days when it never quits. Inside her the sky empties itself in slow, unresolving fashion, and there isn’t anything worth naming in the fridge.” — Dorthe Nors
Within her there seems to be a rattling; from little stones, from stalks, from days when it never quits. Inside her the sky empties itself in slow, unresolving fashion, and there isn’t anything worth naming in the fridge.