I am not magnificent. I am simple with warts for kneecaps, a tawny frog hopping along the wet streets and dodging the skin of bare tires screeching to avoid me. I am not magnificent. I am not an artist with a paintbrush between my teeth, pondering the yellows of a sunset or a bowl of fruit, the curves of a dream I had or of a lover's face. I am holding my head close to my chest, listening for a heartbeat.
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