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Twentington
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« on: February 09, 2010, 01:18:40 AM » |
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I remember lonely feelings little, and often not at all. I'll stop playing to record what, I know, won't be recalled.
What's this knowledge? A night can speak, through my head can tear alive dreams; morning's better, exists
as I never sat, legs-crossed, never shouldered the weight of the huntswoman's knife. Nor ever soundly dreamt of it.
As if over-dressed for a beating, that still young lady, pausing softly, forgetting why she lives save for rolling her eyelashes,
licensing songs, and prophecies, chewing cheap corners of hope,
lingering on the brink, hunting knife, and two guns. "You're someone's child." Some single thing to whom you belong.
And try not to hurt her, she feels things so, so strongly.
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