Julian Lass

With half-closed eyes, I would as a small child sit on the plastic seats in the back of the Texas-yellow Beetle and look out of the window, clicking my teeth, taking a picture of a passing object in order to keep it in my head, to fix its position in time and space, another snapshot of the world outside, aligning images, observing the gaps between, measuring distance by trapping memories inside my mouth, accidental couplings flashing by in accelerated voyage.

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