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Thursday, May 04, 2006

Bits From My Journal

The heart is painted with thick layers of desire.
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Their carts filled with informalities at bargain prices.
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The day opened wide as a book opened often, to a favorite page.
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Willows hunch, creaking arthritically in gusty breeze.
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The subterranean culture swallowed up the past; it is but fumes of sulfur- that residual stench of palpability.
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The last day extends a hand, as if to offer some basis to anticipate comfort without suspicion.
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