southern november's rain atlas

shuffles into mouth lips curl around it: hugs for every second and lurches in a lean smoke ascension calls sky-air or doors unclosed sound moves outward, upward smoke follows dilligent creature of the mists and moments we caost like you but down roads and through green lights and past clock ticks, runs dry any instant but for now, comes more called as tripwire life, we're always here and thinks just so.

2003-12-09 | 3:19 p.m.
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