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{limits of symbols} luc simonic Stopping directly right of zero; a labored countdown from twenty-one. The cupboards full up with little plastic kings and queens, growing things, sparkly things, the things that cut both ways. All my eye and Peggy Martin; grass, dirt, rocks, wine, the burning sky. All my eyes like birds in pockets, like glass after glass after glass; an alcoholic. So, "No! No! Not that again!", he screams; a deft longing for a thin clean white cotton sheet, and sleep. |
