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A HEAP OF UNROLLED BANDAGES UPON THE FLOOR

The invisible man courts anonymity. He has grown tired of the fraught drama of sleight of hand, tired of the shadow labyrinth of set down by the window’s elaborate lead-work. To ward off harm, he cloaks the plaster cast interior of the small closet in a black felt skin. The closet’s cramped dark, as he walks around it, embodied now as a positive space, seems a mansion.