One by one into the light they fade as if not flesh cast into another night of an awful sun, my friends go seeking after me, where I've been, their clues the stories I've made up, as if this one were real: that I'm a swallow, my traces then only gifts to the present eye, and diving off the edge of the world into evening and the low humming sound of cicadas in blue light, falling, I chase the sun like a bug.
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