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Ghost Stories For The Wilderness Impaired. This night is full of gunshots. They only last a few seconds. The time it takes my hand. To feel your chest, inhale, exhale. I imagine your last breath. Sirens are heard, near. Of blue, red upon our bedroom wall. Here, we sleep between gunshots. I can hear your breaths. From your first until now.
Just like a lit matchstick. Of the roller coaster of life. And you gotta gather up. Not let it conquer you. And make that heart burn of pain. A burning light of hope.
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If drops of rain could be counted. Thoughts as well may be puzzled. At the feeling of something nothing. The callings, messages, cordial and nasty talks, memories shared,. Bearable and unbearable grief,. The smiles worn in thoughts of her even at her absence.
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Also, NEW unopened packages of underwear and socks. Will be donated to children at local schools. Thursday, February 9, 2012.