Andrew McLoughlin

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You wish your skin were a visa, since there are several places it cannot travel. It cannot go to certain European towns, because when it does it may be set upon by local youths, provoked by its confident passage down the middle of their streets. It cannot visit certain boardrooms, certain hearts. What a time to have a migrant body. What a time to live within this terrifying vehicle, this dark bulk.
In The End, It Was All About Love
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