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 February 11th, 2008
Without promise.
• February 11, 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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