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The hours have bones. The apocalypse alarm clock Is waiting to catch me asleep. But there is no sleep, not here, Not this far into the unimaginable, This far into the realm Of soul-twisting stress. I am mortally weary. And mortal. Asleep at last! And, shocked by the knowledge, Awake .... Alone in the turning fan, In the layered air, I have no true skinship with anyone but ghosts. |
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