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IN A WORD

IAN MARTIN

i saw the printing press at the edge of the world. took pictures. it was okay, looked pretty in the off-light, looked like other exhibits. wasn’t special, got talked up too much, sagged in places. the crowd’s eyes bored stories into the titanium. who touched it when it lived? no one but electricians. it was automatic, electric, worked in solitude. got worn down simply existing. i touched it, that seemed important. the guards told me step back. you never did respect history, you’d snicker. i saw it, didn’t i? fiddled with my museum pass, stood in an approximation of awe, made small talk with a chatty dad like i cared about the future of our species. that seemed important. everything i do is important, synapses calloused and deft, wiring narratives for other people who may or may not care. i texted you about it. you sent emojis back. if i printed our text logs in a book. if it looked pretty in the off-light.

bird IAN MARTIN
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