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On War

If the body has its own language it is because limbs and lungs are also a repository for events long forgotten by conscious memory. Peel away the walls of the body and you are bound to remove the place holders that keep the past from spilling out towards you.

It is also true that in Addis Ababa the stray dogs beat out an endless tap-tap.

Pressed against a sky filled with the colour of cyan and occasional streaks of red, what this signals to me is that no one wins in a war.

The mongrels are all cross-bred with a Russian genus.                                                             Not quite made for this climate but still roaming the streets.                                           Sediment of another subterranean moment that is in fact world-historical.

The paws scratch the surface of rocks and pebbles.                                                                 You dream that our elbows will interlock.                                                                                     But what happens instead is that your spine keels backwards towards incapacity.

It is also true that you cannot take in that which you want to see pour out.

I would advise you to refrain from challenging my rigidity.                                             Rather, retrace the cups that hold your pain, watch how the body can stand still for years. And the dogs beat out an endless tap-tap.

No one wins in a war.

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