night,
succesive dream of superstars who all say I owe them stuff: thats fucked! but there is one, and she races through my head like a truck.
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...It`s snowing, the boy said. He looked at the sky. A single gray flake sifting down.He caught it in his hand and watched it expire there like the last host of christendom. (From Corman McCarthy, THE ROAD)
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