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Au Printemps

 Rimbaud moved past Elysium to the third floor. He considered Michel de Montaigne’s beard a complete waste of time. New World jungle Rimbaud flicked a gesture of unresistence, promulgated by the surety of bad habits. Pressing words forward like tribes, and therefore filtering, Montaigne sits at his desk. He holds a pen, minutes screw tighter, ideas in words spring. Rimbaud settles to this thought, his head in one place and not elsewhere. A picture of Rimbaud looks like an evasive clock.


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