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efd0fb9780a2826ea02db6d6a3a1ea5a

Language has a way of skirting around in the margins. These margins collide with concepts, where the inner worm bashes against the outer skin of self, brushing against the ridges of intertextuality. Sometimes I feel like I’m constructing a system of art, other times I feel like I’m coughing up random words. Both cut into me and break out of me. This is a place of margins.

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