every life, a tragedy

these days, as shipments from the sea and air, lives are drying out and tried out put up and away (no more supermen) and so few mysteries so few mysteries we even understand the workings of the mind somewhat. So waiting is an honor, a little room from which each last tragedy that is life walks and waits to go in, you�ll be there, just like me and all the others, a line, reading bad magazines or whispering about the neighbors (as women are so prone to do).

2003-12-31 | 12:25 p.m.
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