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Like a trophy, it adorns. Giving me strength and power. A tube-like trolley, riding on leather cow seats. Pearlous handles. Visible and amplified to six feet tall. The dome in a lighted truss. Furry devils launched on a smelter pad. Store time items, inside juice, handsome letters filled in a tin bottom. Those saluable artifacts, gone for a price in a tranquil shop offering gallantry.


        Soul offerings. Burnings.


        Mine sits. Waiting for outer anxiety attacks. Degree emergencies have their common knowledge, fortright and worthy in it's dying causes.


        A million deaths. Common tripods to squat over and fuck. Time warps don't happen. Bondage met with bravery in no war. The universe changes before another arrival, so things can seem new all over again. But they're not. They're never different. It takes awhile to learn that. I wonder if I have. Can knowledge extend to all people. If so, why can't there be an understanding of it, common. Particular victims sense out a thorough venture, wigs around a gush, feed a grain to vending machine people. Peck. The apples rotted.


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