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July 12, 2016
Sometimes it matters little what the words can do for they have a substance of no regret. They can only fuster up their syntax with not a jot of knowing how or why or what they might convey, but in the grit of meaning with intent as the muscle of their pride, they can fashion a womb in which you can muster a rebirth, redesign the habitat of your death and life, and I can only write this, better without voice, for the words are the bullets and panacea. They kill me. They give me life. They draw me away.