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A slow breaking and mending
of blood and bone
fit for the poorest
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Pour tomber, pour courir,
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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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Saturday, November 24, 2007
No matter what kinda day it is (:
This is a mess of excitement and fear. I'm holding on so furiously to my aces, and I don't know if it's the risk of losing or of winning, behind my resilience.

Everything's perfectly fine, as it is..more than fine, every now and then, in all honesty. My thoughts ride on hours and minutes and seconds that pass without so much as a smirk, but in a sudden explosion of wit and secrecy, time is a bargaining chip!, or an old excuse!, a cover-up, or a barrier; it's an enemy of virtues, it's insanity's par amour.

It's another slow and steady way into my kind of delusions; your sort of charm's weapon of choice..it's nothing really, but it makes my day a little less like an hourglass and a little more like a life.

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