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the bookish one
A thought trapped in the mud-clogged vein beneath the most silent volcanic portal is only a small hope that waits to be heard and received.Give it time and give it a name.Our dreams have no color........ There's no negotiations or mystery in black and white decay.We just stand in bread-lines and wait for less and less. Sorrow is uninvited but welcomed with open arms by the door-keepers.The books they've burned will speak against them.
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