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July 13, 2016
To the sum I yield, all of it, with the constituents of being and nothingness bundled in that addled, overdrawn cart of dark philosophy in the trenches of French despair where no man could open their eyes, lest they die. They bartered sight for seeing nothing but decay in the mud, and in the marches they kept this seeing bundled in the couches of the pilfered nights. There, with clutches half forgotten in the din of need, their eyes dug deep in the flesh they bought, flesh that surrendered, flesh that marked a denial and acceptance of this freezing heat.