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Wherever you decide to grow
Please remember to ask the dirt
‘Am I still dust’
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Terry sat there in the dirt, suddenly realizing he was thirsty and started to shuffle on his rear towards a mini fridge hooked up to a generator. He opened it and pulled out a Capri-Sun.
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Filling his nostrils, cold and moist against his cheek. The primitive taste of it, like licking a grave. Prayers tossed from his mind to the heavens as stray small coins are tossed into a fountain. His left arm throbbing beneath his weight. All around him
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Sometimes the dirt just stays dirt
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