Worrying about a white horse, so white, suddenly barging into my room: What if the horse fills up the room, jamming it, settling in? What if the horse locks me behind its large eyeball, not letting me out? Into the White Horse Station enters a glowing train and dark-silhouetted people get off the train. Sun goes down and as the door opens at the abandoned house, she runs out, a woman, soiled faced, clutching her ripped blouse, and tripping over the stars scattered about her ankles. Just wait a moment, she disappears into the house and gulps down pesticide, dashes out again, and galloping, she holds onto the tree trunk attempting to gag up the white horse inside her body, yet the horse, once entered, would not leave. As if the horse's mane were tickling her vocal cords, she hiccups, unable even to cry. What if the horse never leaves the body? That white, white horse, what if it seizes all the paths carved inside the body, unwilling to let even one train enter all night? What should I do? Shall I go ask her, the one who never uttered even a word until now, her vocals chords burnt by the pesticide, the one tolerating a white horse in her? Though this is my room, I can neither leave nor enter; worrying about the white horse standing there aloof .
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