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August 26, 2010
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I see the page.


the speck sticks to the blue fading horizons
I feel the ridged metal coils.
the shy smell of rotting old time picks up.
the wild pencil makes creates symbols
smooth line jots up your fingers grasp it
knocking the easer to help speed
coming like lit up lightbulbs
exiting like trains
the clock is forgotten
time is theory
as is you
as is me

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