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2003-01-14 | 1:42 a.m.
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All the fluttering words hit a road block between my ear and my brain. I must've built it in my sleep.

Ladies open their mouths and little ghosts fly out like butterflies floundering to the next delicate ear.

________

She said that death was half of my whole life. Well, my death jogs. In running shoes, smiling with bad, frizzy hair and a sweat band. My death is one laid back dude.

Along the way, love kicked her in the back of her knees, and she fell into the mud and refuses to take a shower. I think she's still tired.

I wish she thought her death was a finger puppet.


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