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September 9, 2009
I rub the top of my nose, my beak. It's grainy, or rough, perhaps, but not like sandpaper. It itches inside, inside of my nose, inside of my heart, inside of my bones, inside of my mind and my eyes. Everything is so itchy these days, I can hardly stand to look at it, writhing and slithering around, slimy in its own self. I rub up and down, wondering why, but there is not any answer. Never are there ever any answers. But it's okay, I forgive my nose and my heart and my mind mostly, for never having answers.