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topping off the edge of

the universe, you’ve developed space

and blackness, echoing into piano

keys and lightening bolts.  My sound forms in

a young mind from votkinsk.  he is

throwing

tin across the school yard, a  fortune teller

brings the sleaves on his coat

close to her heart.  She asks him to

fix the material.  His eyes roll back,

red, lightening, sand, crying while flying. blue,

noise, noise, noise, smoke.  There isn’t much

future for him, only mixture of past and eternity.

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