The dust gathering around here is endless, speechless, distinct in its entirety. Infinitely supplied with its own material to reconstitute itself every after we poor wretched breathers wipe it away, with troubled eyes and shallow breath. Unknown in its comings and felt in its goings, spread farther with the westerly wind, blown in and swept, why can’t it just sift itself into the corners to pronounce its time for cleaning?
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No single work did more to question the conventions than what you now read. Welcome to my world. View all posts by Fictional Man