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Birth of an Artist
The holy light, gravity and chill of the birthing room seeped through Frank’s passive, baby machinery – a blind trickle of wind filtering through the strings of an abandoned harp – emitting a dead melody, true as the atrophied sphincter of a mental patient sleeping off a pilfered tub of shortening; the genuine mindless screechsong of the bewildered primate emerging from the bowels of nirvana into a sandpaper Mardi Gras of blankets and smiles.
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