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Not sure if this belongs here. It's surreal and bizarre, but doesn't explain.


I was frightened by the boy they called my brother. He was real; he was obdurate. He was never a pair of scissors or a thimble or a thumbtack. He never appeared suddenly in the sewing-room, fully formed and naked, unknowing, screaming at being alive. He had come out of the vagina of the woman they called my mother, purple and small, and had grown up gradually. This was natural, I was told. I nodded. Natural.