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Make of this what you will |
| Painting whores hung upon easels by paper crowns. Declining destinies laying in cold baths With pre-packed souls in underwater towns. Soldiers with fingers dipped into red rising storms Searching for gutted portraits seen only in mind stretch. Naked tornadoes. Windless. Idly poised paintbrushes. Twenty stretched digits. Locked. Entirely white. Entirely dark. |