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There is a tiny hole into which all things fall eventually,

a crazy density that holds light a prisoner.

And there are all the things you ever owned, but tiny,

and also, all the things you never owned,

because they were too crooked,

and too silly, and

they spoke,

and they



The imagination ambles down a path and lumbers towards us,

crooked and silly and curious: stumbles into

the black hole where Isaac Newton’s pyjamas

are trapped with yesterday’s left-overs.

Where light cannot escape even though

this place is so small

it may not even



And it cannot illumine either, is

reduced to atoms trying

insanely to leave at 9.46053

miles per second: a pretty

quick clip

for going


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