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April 5, 2012
Am I bound to this dance proscribed by the unseen voices without proper introductions, uttered in silence to the cowering hoards off the grid of belief derailed from purpose beyond the scope pushed to the limits of cerebral endurance, nor can I be so gifted by the sacrosanct, allowed a touch of the beloved devices shared on the mental battlefield once stretched lovingly to seal fates to the blood bedecked shadows wherein mothers blurred with memories of fathers and became the diadem in head, the very false facsimile of the holy Mendala? So comes the question that cannot be denied.