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I woke in a sweat from a desirous fever in the pocket of yesteryear where faults have fallen to some. I begged not to carry the corpse. To not be a queer fish in unforgiving hearts.

To not be buried in native clay and preserved for cynicism.

I wish to be a pauper in kind eyes. To feel the gravel beneath my knees. To wake in a home.

God had sent my calamity into a deep space from which not even in dreams, could I ever imagine my escape.

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