Dear Attention Span,
I have a pumpkin. I have a small glass of bourbon with an ice cube. Michael Jackson's Thriller. So many knives, not enough hands. So many trumpets, not enough patience. I've heard the piper calling. I'm no smooth criminal, but I've smooth hands. That's a lie: they're very dry. It's seasonal. It's all this hot water I've gotten myself into. From Canada, a woman intercepts my words. She teaches me to eat everything with peanuts. I soak cashews to grind into cheese. I polish the clay, twist the silver, check the flyers for the cheapest canvas. Someday soon, I will need to write this list. After a while, all of the monster voices sound the same.
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