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Wired
The heart takes its tin box on journeys, packs its memories
in sawdust, how we love the worn, the imperfect return surprising how the miles can swallow a body you become smaller, a distant blip on the screen yet they can monitor your heartbeat plot whether your trousers are up in Timbucktoo or down in Timaru or whether you are simply staring open mouthed at the sudden hills one day your organ will short-circuit, a fuse will pop and as we fumble in a dark motel room, the surgeon’s face will light up in wonderment
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