Tuesday, April 7, 2009


their distant words grow faster, and faster than emptiness, then emptiness. The words feign themselves as illusory, artificial-like extension
cords wrapped around warped outlets. at the sounds of explosion -- not real -- wounded butterflies die in bellies. round, flat, shimmering. they yearn for other words, silently.
misery must have driven those words. real words in a strange world.

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