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April 22, 2004
Mimicry is what I heard. He knew what he was up to. Laugh, sneer then sleep, my dear. Do me a favor, don't call me. The piece of my mind is at the door. The dirt is under the rug. And all of a sudden the luggage is worn and nothing is hovering softly. Paint and silver, matches and weeds cover the gloss of the accent. Heaving and sorting and ambulance mocking over the clearance of intention. I didn't cry. I didn't do it. I didn't make sense like he did. I'm a wee one and can't touch my eyes.