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February 5, 2013
Would a photo of me reveal anything other than a chick struggling not to sip into a somnolent slouch, a frown that dares you to tell it to turn upside-down, eyes that with each blink find it increasingly hard to remain open? Would anyone waving the Polaroid, waiting for it to develop with little patience, see the fear of losing my teeth as in dreams (either crumbling or in strips like seeds from a cucumber spear), the thirst for lemonade, the low-level nag of omnipresent anxiety that I pretend I cannot identify but which I know but won't say aloud?