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This was supposed to be a love letter written by a content writer, then it just got weird.
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Spilled milk it is --lactate of common desire;water under the bridge, slow-moving, white. So this is what we feed on: the past and present here for the licking.Sweat is water too,for the hungry, and any past will do. Parched mouths kiss just as well as…
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I awoke mid-dreamAt that point between light and dark,East and west, young and oldThat no one knows or remembers.There was no electricity,No electric lights, no humming machinery.Only the sights and sounds of creationSpectacular in their simplicity.
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As we stood there, my hair slung over his shoulder like uncooked pizza dough, I updated my wish.
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Motivation always needs to come from somewhere. For some all it takes is a sunny day, a smile from a stranger or a simple pat on the back. Others demand a fire lit, a carrot dangled or a whip cracked. Yet here the sun had set, the fire extinguished and th
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Thirty is nothing, she said, Wait till you really start to fall apart. I wanted to tell her I already have, but you can't ever say anything like that, especially not on your birthday, especially not to the woman who's just bought you spaghetti and wants
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I think I have experienced this before: This fractal sigh upon the star-scarped floor, That makes this concrete mock of valley heath- Below the traffic lanterns at the door, Of frigid other flowers lovers ‘queath None but their eyes to.…
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she covered me with down and kissed me good night, tucking in loose ends, whispering prayers... she cut me out of paper and blew me into life. she held the scissors near my neck in case i put up a fight. she covered me in clothes cut out of colored paper: polka dotted…
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I like to keep my mind uncluttered for truly fresh information, like the fact that T.S. Eliot taught Virginia Woolf the Chicken Strut. That's news you can use.
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When he saw me, he jumped faster and faster, wild like something rabid.
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Cold, wet and dreary.The three words that describe Belgium. A country that owns so little identity. Sure, there are the mussels, beer, wafels and chocolate ... But that's about as far as it goes. The lack of identity rules the country, grayness rules the horizon. And…
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Deciding what is important from the life of a man that you haven't spoken to in ten years was a task that had seemed impossible at the outset. But now, here she stood, having done just that.
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It was a cruel question, coming on breath that stank of the grave.
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The smell of your chest, and the taste of your lips
as they touch mine
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"I packed up the rest of his things today. Irony is the fact I'm still picking up after him, despite the fact he's been gone for two weeks."
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You had that quietness by nature (unusual in men) that I was attracted to. You were like some body of water, wide and more spiritual than anyone I knew. You could have taken me with you when you flew. I know you were more like a bird than any of the oth
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Will you leave me, you, the one?
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When I came back home, after coming down with polio, everything had changed for me. I'd been gone for forty-five long days and nights. But it was Halloween, a time very nearly sacred for children in the Midwest, and it brought out the charity of the who
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His throat had turned red after a few days of singing, and when he looked in the mirror he saw little sacs of white pus, like pimples, in the back of his mouth. “You got to pace yourself,” the big black woman who sang at the other beer garden told him.
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He called himself Theodore Birdwhistle.
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Breaking the cat's cradled cord she examines her fingernails. She notices a crack in the paintwork, sighs to herself. Makes a mental note to cover it over.
Cover it over, paint over the cracks. There's been a lot of that recently, hasn't there?
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I was born into a perpendicular world
I held Vertigo in my arms once
And gave her a good squeeze
That she just couldn’t get out of her head
Then she would follow me around the perimeter
Where my breath was being held
Against my will
Ah,
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I had a temperature of 105 degrees. I lost all my hair.
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Sometimes we hurt ourselves, we scratch ourselves, we bleed — for a simple joy... All I wanted to do was to find the poplar again — the tree of my young arms, of my budding breasts. My fingers used to circle around its bold and vigorous waist, but in the…
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1A voice scratches her ear: Come here, petal.Later: …
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nope. no excerpt for you.
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shitting out the Mona Lisa.
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Once something starts, there is no telling where it will go.
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The town was wet from storms and the church was full while the priest gave an exegesis. The world outside did not bother with words or cleverness busy as it was with the real wisdom of its own natural cycles. During the night before, many sheets of rain arrived…
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