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Our secret worlds. Avian collisions. Wine and tears and cracked plastic mud-dust covered metempsychosis. Brown blue bottles of unidentified dried liquids and crusty old taken in trees begging to be returned.

Old rusty hooks.

Plenty of rope to hang myself with.

And Frida lounging in the corner with poinsettias and tequila and lime juice abdominal paper cuts smiling coy little mustache of encouragement.

Emerging -

1:07 p.m. - 2006-03-07
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