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February 15, 2012
This is the known quantity we hold in our cups, tempting our better natures, holding us at bey, threading the needs with exponentially growing wants, such that the hope for death becomes like a comedy of errors to be drowned by hopeless infatuations of love on glossy pages rifled with sticky eyes in the back of memories patched appropriately on the flesh faces we'd rather see consumed by forgetfulness and desperate desires modeling our worst for our best, as the hopes can only fall with the mistakes we're sure to make, and yes, even in the best of mindful times.