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Interval Between Beating Pulse and Sunrise |
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Lastly the insects grind a kind of static into the night. Lastly the hair on your back is shaping up to be another Massachusetts. A toy in a cereal box. You've lived to tell about it with clean hands. I am all of a sudden. Or the tongue in the mouth saying, the last time was a lake reflection, a windshield wiper held in place by ice. |
1996 © 2008 |