decide a small leak, no one chasing me through the lanes of lost local misunderstandings. Camouflaged by a past that now do not pretend to have lived, sway your head to the tribal rhythms, wielding a lipstick lit as a sign of what is distinctive, drinking ginger tea too hot. Listening to function words, while seeking God in a strobe ball (the music beats in me), his feet beat the rhythm, you're somewhere else (you're always somewhere else) and I do not. 
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