We are the sons and daughters of the gloam.
Let us bask in our sanguine dreams, of majesty and travesty and everything else.
Archive for December 29th, 2007
Campfires and what you meant to me.
• December 29, 2007 •
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Nonfiction-Prose
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I wish the sky would fall on me.
Yesteryear will always be darker.
A thought to kill the draught.
You dance diversions and prototypes.
Censure measured in gold.
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