Sunday, December 13, 2020
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pretty bad
The times find their note from the tuning fork of the unkind, leaving a sorry song to wonder after your mind. You can follow the directions,...
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This is how your letter finds me, as beaten and bowed as nature allows. This is how your letter finds me, a little lighter on the metaphor. ...
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The earth shifts, the air you just inhaled seems to slip away. Something sour blooms, something unclean at your very core. The bile choked b...
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Knowing no more of music than what you hear you see three crows fly across four power lines and think: Music! And that is seeing. And that i...
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