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April 1, 2014
I'm steadying my arm, bracing myself for expulsion from expectation's balm, that center of security, oft faux, depicting a pastorale across a war torn plain mimicking victory on descent from apocalyptic pretensions foiled for curious perspectives painted on despairing faces slumped in exhaustion along the road, a seeming parade crowd waving flags, but a funeral dirge having lost their way to the grave site, being the very picture of disbelief swallowed like a pill for pain; that this calamity we find most convenient rigorously stays our motion, keeps us grounded, paralyzed for fears we can no longer name, even suspect.