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Beware when desert stars hang heavy in the night. When dark canopy sags like an unused udder and prickly light drags deep, illuminating the soul's cacti and the mesquite's rough bark. The shadows of stars have no pity, their black sum an ooze filling the mind's ruts and blocking flight. You, the shadows accuse, you have not accomplished enough, won enough, done enough. The earth turns with a stifling slowness, fueled by my sighs, or perhaps slowed by them. I don't know which. I do know that the porch light seems an eternity away, and that tomorrow the damned garbage goes out before dark.
Aw, come on now. Be honest. Who hasn't felt like this on occassion?
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