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So I've been trying to tell you, but I don't know, don't know if you understand the shapes of things -
Do you know why it is that cathedrals resonate so well? They're in thirds, taller than wide, with arches at the top -
Do you know a tuning fork?
A cathedral is in the same shape,
Each arch carrying noise up to the skies -
You never listen to me.
And this silence, it's bullshit,
keeping all of the would-be tones in the depths of your lungs with the alvioli.
It's a jealous thing, this silence
and this death

Do you know your body is perfectly proportioned?
Do you know Michaelangelo? He knew proportions.
Modern Artists don't, don't have to, but your armspan is your height perfectly.
Your foot is as long as the inside of your forearm.
Your hands fit around you;
once is your wrist
two hands is your neck
four hands is your waist -

Did you know these things before you put your body into the dirt?

Your fingernails keep growing after you are dead.
They used to be afraid of being buried alive because they used to find each other with claw marks on the insides of coffins,
and it was paranoia -
I found claw marks on that space that is as long as your foot, and the one that your hands fit twice around,
And I am afraid of being buried alive,
with you, here
in this school of mahogany,
of books half as thick as they are tall,
and the body weighs just slightly less after you are dead.

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