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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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Monday, July 28, 2008
I TRIED to remember what I wrote this morning
I am suspended motion in a bucket, full of emotion, as the dense insanity finds me hanging, barely there. My arms flail and eyes force open, at every slight commotion. Coco's putty boats sail past my muffled screams without a care. I know nothing of devotion, I've been raised well, by this dead ocean. All I know of is the current running through my lungs and hair. I don't sink but I can't swim -oh, and I'm run by pressure's whim

..but truth be told, these days with you have felt like coming up for air.

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