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There were, that is, lives behind this life, messages murmuring within nature's minutiae. Look closely: everything is webbed with everything, existence an illuminated manuscript you walk through. All you have to do is study. All you have to do is learn how to read.
— Lance Olsen, Calendar of Regrets ‎· моя психоделическая какофония
Came across a vendor selling fried tarantulas stacked high in a bowl like black potato chips. He spoke wrecked English. I asked him what tarantula tasted like. He thought some, then asked me, expectant: _You ever have scorpion?_ ‎· моя психоделическая какофония
The blade piercing her breast in an azure thunderclap. Achilles thrashes on top of her like a hooked salamander, pressing the air out of her lungs, spraying sweat across her clamped eyes, mumbling into her neck a series of mysterious syllables, _Pa-tro-clus, Pa-tro-clus, Pa-tro-clus._ Suddenly Iphigenia remembers where she has heard that name before. ‎· моя психоделическая какофония
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