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I find the liberated “I.” I lose it. I walk around a few movie theaters without deciding whether. It’s raining against the mall’s gigantic skylight. I try to call you, but then I don’t. I look at the calculated greenery inside the mall, leaves the size of children that don’t know they’re in a shopping mall and not a rain forest. A television is talking surreptitiously about family. There are windows even on the inside, facing more inwardly. This is the definition of a mall. There may be an agenda in every image. I try to call you, but then I don’t. I find the liberated lie. I use it.