"Morte… morte… Bruges-la-Morte… — the cadences of the last bells, weary and slow, little, worn-out old bells which seemed to be shedding petals — was it on the town? Was it on a grave?"
—Georges Rodenbach via
"In a sense, frottage is all about riding the glitch and agreeing to dabble in the hauntological."
but mystical hope
in the dregs of the winter
rabbit disappears
moon that from a western shore
tracked my shadow on black ice


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