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Richard Froude

In my left arm I keep a fear of dogs. A fear of bees in my right. The soil informs
me of a world without the distinctions of language. Let’s talk about this on the
telephone. The use of electronic devices is permitted only when the cabin doors
are open. In review, a way to open the doors.

The memory of a river: a meadow to one side. Dogs splash in the shallows. The
orphans toss them food but the dogs will not touch it. By food, I mean their dead.
Only one, the largest, tears flesh from a canine skeleton. The orphans whoop. The
cannibal dog has the head of a man.

I tell Beretta this story. She asks about the bees. When I was seven I trod on a
wasp. Here, flight as the contrary of death. A wasp is not a bee. How do you know?
You weren’t there. In review, a way to reinforce solitude.

The cannibal dog has the head of a man. These are developments beyond Design,
as Beretta would portray herself. An anomaly, with plumage similar to the modern
day peacock. Able to subsist on soil but with a preference for lilacs.

I have taken to sleeping in a miniature coffin. Everything I know I learned from birds.

Richard Froude

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