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[L]ead is a material different from all other materials, a metal which you feel is tired, perhaps tired of transforming itself and that does not want to transform itself anymore: the ashes of who knows how many other elements full of life, which thousands upon thousands of years ago were burned in their own fire. ŪPrimo Levi / A star's last life as lead is in working the rock whose closed weight seems dead but instead is full of deception / to absorb those perils it has lived hidden all of the lives it has under a skin of glass to reflect / you may weigh it against the tangle that our dead are, worn through like old skin who knows how many other elements in their own transformations once wore. / what's left will be wrought of the course memory follows after those shapes it took after
/ what's left then is liquid as feeling, elastic as flesh. / past dissolution go likewise open as matter's most constant resolve
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