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■ November
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Corn's on my steps...
so goldish yellow like the remembered shadows of a forgotten submarine. So many seeds... like soldiers ordered back from an unwanted battle. Green horns... so long and fading, like the desires of a eunuch's dream. No roots though... just bark of foreign trees beneath. It's never... another time of a forgotten over. ---------------------------------------------- No mother, father... just the improper spelling of a dream.
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