still wishing to talk. still wishing to stop "shaking". still listening to my own bad advice. still not sending these sorts of things.
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miscreants gave pauses to the filthy little boy, driving him to corners where he could be safe- hiding his eyes and stealing his words away to places where they wouldn't ever come back.
the band of thieves not only stole his senses his notes his ears also brought the realization that along the way there were no more shrill disabling marches, no more rolls as the r's fell away, and no more drum beats to set rythm on its end he had to reinvent again- the song he sang, it had solvents, and it flittered into
sarsaparilla mozzarella run down stairs and daunting buntings calling for the man who held them insincerely flatteringly mastering the physically forming dreaming streaming just as first steps film caught and he
stepped down the tempo again, looking to reclaim an old stride, in the dispersal of legs further from further from each other than knees could comprehend and folded hands could ever bring to bear.