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Waves of wooden bolts. Crash and seal. Silicone
of coasts and travels and ports and flights and places and pins. Plastic. Pins of dry lands and wet uniforms. Shiver,
tremble, quiver, stand. Just. On your own feet. That night
when someone switched the light of the lighthouse on.
Poem: Woodworking, by Ludovica Mazzucato
Recommended music: B. Holiday