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genevieve graves lives in a house on a hill, in the smallest bedroom in the house. the walls are completely paper thin and everyone can hear every little thing, but she still plays her strings, kisses oyster shells and sings. she writes as if to shed skin. and place them in chord structures, to never hurt a thing. to freeze the mosquito in amber and wear around her neck where a heart and an onyx appear. she is twenty and was nineteen. and is frightened by making the music in the public. it's like being naked and uncrossing legs.