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I can see at least a mile of copper trees and children's eyes all smiling for what is yet to come. Subtleness is not a scene I can recall from memory, if memory was something I recalled. Fall asleep gracelessly, rest on still-smoke-filled lungs. Dream a Fall dream of your fallen dreams. Tightly tied tongues cannot speak eloquent, heaven sent sentiments. None. The sun does not shine upon God's tragic, whiskey bent sons.
I awake to smothering another dream of struggling to reconcile with what I have become. Sympathy need not know me, its efforts would be make believe employed by a man on the run...from nothing, nobody, no one.
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