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Motto: "There's a little girl's voice that sings lullabies in my guest room closet but don't mind her; she died years ago. Here's your blanket"
the night squeezes moon juice into my dreams and I lemon my way through thick syrupy words going round and round above, in my head like a dotto train ding ding ding!! (Luna-land here, everyone off!!) fantasies of the weak begging like potato chips in a bag to be crunched at least once in a real commercial with a second hand banner and no pride trouble was waiting in paradise like paint in a pot ready to be splashed over an Aston Martin’s window how we laughed at this scenario, oh, baby! how many times we giggled thinking God is away on business and this time He is, He must be and He must have left in charge Brahms’ lullaby, her frail mind and someone’s little finger
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