Like an outdated telephone I am always waiting for someone to lift me from my cradle and wrap themselves in any correspondence. I no longer have a cord, though once it was the only way I ate. Little spaceman, little stone. I am still incapable of comparing myself to a gem, but I loved amethyst as a kid, and once bought some from the rock shop in Breckenridge. They had also for sale, in a thick glass display case, the skull of a saber-tooth tiger. It yawned like a shipwreck and devoured my attention like so many cavemen and whatever foundational paintings they never got to make. You who have gone before us, today I feel less musical than these crows resting on their violins of electricity running parallel to the roads. I have never used a phone booth, though like iron maidens they still wait outside some gas stations with the emptiest of arms.
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