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Miasma Today is sallow. Peacocks pale against an August sky. Pink and yellow converge in a fruit salad mélange of whipped layers that bleed together, then diminish into mist, as seen from this narrowed prism, this keyhole perception, this prison of monochromatic dawn. Tomorrow is somewhat moist with hope. There is a dampness of dreams, perhaps something pastel, even frankly blue. Probably not. Tomorrow will probably creep in under the door, covertly, covered with a dust that harbors a thousand life forms in imperceptible shapes and colors, ripe for inhaling unawares. Yesterday, the earth opened its mouth in a grand canyon roar, a red layered scream that opened a chasm that startled the hawks, preened with the eons, and echoed the dawn Or, so I thought...yesterday...so I thought. |
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