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I close my eyes, and once again, I’m
drifting, clutching at the frayed edges
of memories, fingers fastened to the
fragile gossamer heart I coughed up
when the train stopped too fast.

I know where I am.

But then again, do I really?
The trees might as well be our souls;
I might as well be as empty as air
draped over hills and valleys and
forever standing sentry to the silence
that is borne from fear.

I don’t know where I am.

But then again, did I ever?



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