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The floor stretches the length of the void: we pound upon it, a shouting match, brutal and macho. In prowess we describe the long planks and martial arts to use the leverage of loose nails upon chins. The length of emptiness faced with only the blank stare of wood. This floor written upon it is us, bodies curved into hieroglyphs, keys lost into skies. So will this floor lie exposed to the wind & heat, when we learn to read upon each other, and when we learn to write slowly not using each other's tongue as painful stylus?