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 January 25th, 2008
Two thousand two is the year you left.
• January 25, 2008 •
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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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