Something happens when you mix beans and consume them.
A pathogen occurs. A light shines from the hole, and the warm
air passes like a fire through the valley. It has been weeks like this
and we're hunched over the sink in repose. Who can sing past
his own shadow and into the green mountainsides of youth?
It escalates with each encroaching bite, each bean like a memory
of the country's oscillating democracy. The wind between the lips
of the lying politico. I am worried for my country. I am full of
the helium of balloons sailing higher and higher until constellations
come crashing down from the purple; the lion, the scorpion, the pan.
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