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this thin chiffon rain plays, in this last hour before leaving, perfect companion to my cream socks and single sweet disposition. this pale susurration, it knows what's best and what to be frightened of - and all the rest, are wrong; it seeps into my shampoo hair and i shake it like a mane; it soaks into the sidewalk and illumes old leaves (and left, they leaves, they left) like faultless green writes. in the last hour, an excerpt of my youth, i smooth the stones with steps like pagan poetry and imperfect words to sing the sub dued de luge.
xx.rc
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