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Heart, be clean. Fists, be open, numb.
Lovely, let me be wrong in almost every
Thing. That the page is waste, all that rag
Content. That even despairing relentlessly cannot
Spare you what you fear the most.
Gamine, you are growing
Old now; it’s your time. If you wait here
For the noises of this night,
They will sound out as the rustling of autumn,
Spiky, dried of unctuous
Airs, blazing like a chestnut horse on fire in
The padlocked barn;
It is time it will be time.
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The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.
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