April 2006
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2006
today i am not a writer but maybe i am; thirty years i’ve been without light from which to draw words and for this i am collapsing. time is fog to a lens; silver light from the most dismal of corners; a quiet, vacant white
in my retreat west from east, the cord was cut, and expectedly; that particular day, an unsteady word like love was worth that, and the void, and the abandonment of...
