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March 16, 2011
Days of fire on the bloom of ideas reaching through mold of the old, creating the hot stuff, fluming melodies of rot, combining purple leaves of decay falling on the soils craning for a taste, a lick, a swallow of the arousals bending off hoary loins to collect what sacred delights might bloom under suns behind wary glances of censuring fears...that it must come to this, they cannot, will not abide, lest the world become what they dread the most...expansive gardens no eye or exploring flesh of complacency might even dream but shudder by drafts of nightmare sweat.