Coffee. I have this friend. She is on the phone twisting. No cord, just throat, wrung like a coarse cloth against itself. Crying on the phone is catching it in a thimble. I used to think the divots were holes too tight for needle tips. Phones keep shrinking. And language as we send it through. Abbreviated. I wonder how tall she is these days. If she might be being held by a blind mole. She sounds some way down a dark tunnel.

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