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when we gather our things, broken

cd players, worn shoes without laces and

empty pieces

of bread, we walk west.  it isn’t

much of a destination, there isn’t

water past there and then there

is too much water, but the sky turns

into pastels at a certain point, the

the ground runs into a peach colour

and sky gets separated by

a woman called pochahontas.  she

tries to tell us to empty our things, but

the crayons come out of her mouth and

all we can do it colour with them.

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