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The Gallery
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My building's full of little holes with heads in, staring at the street. They sometimes topple forwards, then stick at one another, passing freaks. They rarely speak and though I don't feed them-- still they keep their double (their quadruple) chins. Their garbage bins are emptied each day. By night waiting with lights off, their cats out, their wives in-- they're PEEPING! They're peeping at the methylated man who spits in a can, spreads his hands

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