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The thickness of the diesel oil on my skin.
If washed, hands will change color, become blue.
The gas station has reprints of perfect bodies.
In the concrete sidewalks, the water runs through the cracks.
Sometimes the watchman paces like a cat, making irking sounds.
Forty-five minutes is a long time in animal years.
He washes my hands and the grease sticks to them.
His nickname is Confucius. The oil has texture and that’s why it glows.