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We let on.

We let on and on and on. Our eyes roll involuntarily. Our hearts beat the same way. We have to fight not to look for you. We have to ignore every painful inch between us and everything, all those molecules, all those bridges and waves, all we react against, all we cling to without knowing why. Our shared suffering is a wave; it has frequency and amplitude. We make graphs.
We make miles into mythology, stories of mistakes, of disappearing. So much past an imagined line, the horizon's letters take back a tendency toward subduction, undrawing the day into its line drawing, dot-dashed down a highway so impossibly long our arms make new lines that do not reach.

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