November 3, 2003

  • There is a dainty dance of words that no longer satisfies.


    There is a solitary trembling of self that has exhausted its adrenalin value.


    There is a cognitive slideshow of erotic entrappings that has lost touch with its source of emanation.


    There is a sense of shrifting-short that the world presumes is a tomb for the anguish of fumbled love.


    But there are not enough sunsets assignedly-unique (take-a-ticket) for every lover (of life, of mankind, or of just another) who’s ever fallen asleep with a restless heart.


    And it would seem that the good love of all the lovers that do practice their love is not enough to launch even one sunrise of one new day as a fresh-for-all new start.

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The End of Days

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