circularity is only becoming of planets and dancers

and the room is spinning and spinning and spinning and the world is always suddenly afloat, bowing and leaning in stern directions, a reverse marionette from unseen waves that could be under every slab of sidewalk or those old mythologies are true and the tortoise has finally died and we’re at mercy. my entire body trembles and shakes at random intervals, as if my unconscious other is shrieking in terror deep off, pounding fists and pointing or shrugging maybe, he thinks the tortoise is the lucky one. a moment of quiet and the room inverts and twists again, the ship hit from the side and going down, the plane spinning and spinning and spinning and someone has gathered up the snow from every old TV and poured it from a white pitcher into my eyes. 

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