when i was thirteen i began listening to billie holiday. and her dust. i was hypnotized by the dust, its sound, how it would never be blown off with a breath. it's been recorded, it is as it was, frozen in time:
stuck in amber; improbable, but true,
immovable, billie locked in her position of grief
with no possibility of a new beginning. the needle swings its arc, drops on the first song. one more tired revolution around the sun
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- it's all coming down
- how provocative
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