small poems & small plates
Neither side plans the preamble. There is no audience but the dry and dusty air, clear of pretext, burned from many layers of meaning. Ancient is the scent of pinion while we sleep, drawing down the ghosts.
Neither side plans the preamble. There is no audience but the dry and dusty air, clear of pretext, burned from many layers of meaning. Ancient is the scent of pinion while we sleep, drawing down the ghosts.
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