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■ The oak
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taste the sun in my wound
inviting, unwinding, descent. my nails carve deeper and deeper into thy cold light - another voice, another sigh; our dead faces - opaque thy solar charm - with no sun in sight. a sullen voice - thy bleak, cold breath - as cold as any whisper... no invocation called thee yet you are here uncrowned, earthbound... let it endure forever...
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