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July 19, Me
. . . only mosquitoes and a piano remain
a July night seeming as though it was empty

But I know nothing of it
I pass through forget take out the key

I know emptiness is also impossible
I sweat looking at myself

Unsure whether I really know
or maybe I really don’t know

About the beasts of July I’ve said too much
the insect-repellent incense has turned to ash the piano is patient

I’ve spoken too much of myself
In the elevator I am empty no one