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Without you, there was a kind of quiet that
is gone now
traded for a solemn wondering, a
cruel sensory deprivation of melodic sorts
(wrought)
sent out letters deliberate as chromosome fantasies,
you can have my mole hills, darling.

Grant me safe facial features
and collegiate expressions to
mark the day with.

2004-02-27 | 3:48 p.m.
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