I don't know how to turn my hot flesh to cold marble.
My blood stands still in my veins and no writing can flow. The Pause button is depressed, and we hang in a state of suspended animation on the screen of our lives, mouths open mid-sentence, conversation unfinished, the journey to map the private landscape interrupted, incomplete.
The only instructions I can find urge me to keep calm and carry on. So I write specifications for birth-simulation scenarios, and artificially squeeze out globs of wordage onto the electric page and no whisper of pain passes my life-identical plastic lips.
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