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He goes for the goal, gets the cleat instead. He falls to the ground clutching his shin; Blood seeping between his fingers, Cries pouring from his lips.
I haven’t told them the full story of my life because there is a war. You saw people running around with guns and shooting each other? I was twelve. You should tell us about it sometime.
We’re tough and able, quite indefatigable At the sight of that placid and bland physiognomy But listen closely: In my mind, Madness takes its toll.
What makes the hair on your arms rise, your palms sweat, the breath catch in your chest like a wild thing caged? Is it the dark? A fleeting memory of a bed ime story,
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