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A slow breaking and mending
of blood and bone
fit for the poorest
of ivory souls.
Pour tomber, pour courir,
pour mourir; no less!

Mademoiselle
No one, to you,
do tell.
A dream,
perhaps a nightmare,
that died in your arms
much too long ago.


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Thursday, May 10, 2007
What is this?
Emerald green is not a shade of dream..it shouldn't be, at all. But how can it not be, when I'm making my way past weightlessness, and phasing through everything in between? I can't fake far past anything in between. I can't handle second-long glances at the clock face, or waiting by the threshold..and I don't want to keep much more, within it. You must be sick and tired of being one big joke; or too drunk and high and stupid and ha..hap..happy, to care.

Pass that shot glass.

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