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In Brazil, or Mexico, or...?




Do you open the briefcase, Copa?




"...but not yet here."


Not yet.




In my own process, the money would represent the intentional theft, the twisting and shattering and deformation of me to serve the abuser's intent.  I am outraged at the cost to myself, and at the cheap shoddiness of the benefit (grandiosity, rich and full and choking with rage and laughter) accruing to the abuser.  When I think of these things, I see my mother's machinations, see sly intent and greasy, full-throated satisfaction in what exists, today.


Shiny, powerful old car with whitewall tires and not  speck of dirt.  High octane fuel, the motor gunning and gunning, the grill glinting and grinning and catching the sun; roiling black smoke.


Woo, Copa.


Your dreams are too scary for me.


Cedar


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