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December 23, 2002
The process of writing words that have wings and bare the sign of a virus that will attack you like a black cloud of white killer bees, resting their last moment on your flesh, so soft and tender, inflamed with every vexation, opening and closing like the last breath before you slip into the unknown. Your turn to chase and to leave a mark with a bite like a final and sacrificial message, to be hung up, to be observed by all and wished upon like no other. Finding solutions to the crossword is how I stitch the bleeding heart.