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with an automatic portrait, careened through the knowledge of an actualized desire, came halfway round the world for the comfort of pizza. Earlier attitudes confirm suspicions. For instance, I cried in a distinctly flight-weary way when Jean Dujardin was murdered by Nazis in a lush French wood, providing just the cover to hang my disbelief on. But I sat stony and disinterested through The Hurt Locker. Expectations fizzle as the fuse gets cut. The culture concept compensates for life is the kind of embodied abstraction I get into. That summer we rewrote ourselves in the liner note margins of the new Kendrick album. What gets me about that refrain, “how much a dollar really cost?” is that its answer changes every second, is nothing, structures the comfort of my holiday mood, depends on us in that alienated way that defers, lazy yet compulsory, to a them no one remembers or ever asked for. Remember that dream, the one where “hands up” wasn’t a response to suffering? Neither do I. Instead it’s Kiesza’s elastic face cooing sex on backlit headrests, keychain comfort in the duty free, an Indiana Jones extra en route to a pretaped extinction holiday who said I would come down with something in Africa. He was right, even though coming down meant a movement more than a condition; something more a meeting apart. Jaunt at dawn to the game reserve, Marikana in the distance. Antelope are the Happy Meals of the savannah and happy is the flotation device that’s never deployed. It lies inert and expectant in its proprietary compartment until the plane gets decommissioned and, I don’t know,

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