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I read books for a living and there are so many words that rush at me that scream at me and pelt down, imapling me - sentences, poems, short stories, an idea - to be inked down and exorcised from me (I'm bleeding at the seams) and sometimes I'm afraid I'll read a line of my own and not own it because this work was published first and these measly strings of syllables in my notebook, in the recesses of my brain, just stay there, they just stay there; these are the words that have no face, these are the words that are not said.