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THE LAN MY HAND Supernal Cliquot Club smashed on the rocks does not give of air. Words maybe but no warmth-placeholder words dead-ended in language. Language is made of leather guage skin wrinkles and the lan the feel of your hand on it the eyes wide open the even breathing. So I was walking past the sodium lights and the white curve of Cannes looking for the right pink dress old luggage in myhand. Dead-ended but forced to look at the cream-colored hotel with the green shutters five stories and fishing boats piled to the side. Wed sailed in on a destroyer anchored in Villefranche a train and new wine with eyes eooo miles away this Europe doesnt count until its ours. Youre in another room now asleep and I know I love you again eight years later you with the warmth pouring into night the sparkling eyes the night on liberty and you the lan my hand the even breathing the unwatched ship. 47