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January 16, 2011
Sharp as a tack, with clear vision within and without, saddled to go in defiance of a memory slouched off the side of a tragedy, I'm resisting a resemblance to an unholy labyrinth...tangles of dead roads comingling, shadowing the tyrant of thought control saying,
"You're not ready...who are you kidding?" I am, while screwed to a sticking heart, vigilant, reliable, consistent to a fault, on the way to finding the pea under all the padding, I say, "Come forth, my swart passenger, I will take you on to spit you out...no longer will you be my guide."