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April 15, 2014
I sit beside the river in my soul, where liquors of light carouse streets made of frozen lava, having skipped rolling boulders off the edge of the mountain rising in my eye toward the center of the galaxy's grin, an ever scoping eye in the core reality, walking toward inevitability with its usual poise, and into the habitat of excessive regrets at the church where liquor's convenient comodification draws attention to its majesty and pomp, where its sticky alters are strewn with guilty ridden flies drooping their wings of disrepute onto an infinite tab, that no closure can be had.